


Koraha

by debascas



Series: The Wonderful Misadventures of Junkrat and Roadhog [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ableist Language, Animal Death, Australian Wastelanders, Blood and Gore, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Typical Violence, Deaf Character, Drinking, Enemies to Friends, F/F, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Indigenous People in the Outback, Internalized Homophobia, Karaoke, Lesbian Junkers, M/M, Manhandling, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Reunions, Sign Language, Slow Burn, Swearing, Symbiotic Relationship, Torture, Trauma, Vomiting, Warlpiri, Worldbuilding, gimme that diversity pls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 68,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7392622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debascas/pseuds/debascas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The feeling started when they reached the edge of civilization.</p><p>Junkrat wasn't familiar with the twisting sensation in his stomach, the constriction of his chest, and the tingling of his fingers when he held onto the belt of the man driving the motor bike. He knew it wasn't fear, or anxiety, as he often did experience. It wasn't the thrill and delight he feels when he blows something or someone up. </p><p>This kind of feeling was... Nice. Warm. Nauseating. All at the same time. It grew more sure as the bike accelerated and he held on tighter, the barren landscape blurring passed them, the dust and wind blowing through his singed hair, the roar of the engine ringing in his ears. He tried to brush it off. He tried to forget about it. </p><p>Business, it's only business, he reminded himself. Nothing more. Never will be.</p><p>Oh, how he tried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ambush and Anguish

**Author's Note:**

> "Koraha" means desert in Maori. The alternate title to this fic was "The Wonderful Misadventures of Junkrat and Roadhog" but that's a mouth full, isn't it. 
> 
> All jokes aside, this is just a story focusing on the relationship between the two Junkers. From their first meeting, to their trek through the Outback, their world-wide rampage, and hopefully in the arms of Overwatch in the future. 
> 
> Warning again for animal death and blood in this chapter, nothing too descriptive but a good heads up never hurt anyone. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The Outback was a terrible place to wander in.

The beating rays of the hot desert sun burned against Junkrat's exposed back. He didn't know how long he'd been walking. Or where he was. Or where he was headed. All he knew was not to turn back, keep walking, and avoid anyone bipedal with anything resembling a weapon in their greedy, grimy hands.

While he wasn't really paying attention to the passage of time, judging by the night and day cycle, he'd escaped Junkertown about a week ago, or maybe two weeks. He'd lost count. Only about three days later after his initial discovery at the ruins of the Omnium, word had started to spread around, hushed whispers about his treasure, and people were getting angry. Sneering at him while walking on the streets, lingering just a little too close to him while he was out scavenging, and even a few physical confrontations that ended with Junkrat chucking a grenade at the cretins and speeding in the other direction.

_That's what happens when you run your mouth, idiot._

The townspeople were pissed, pissed that he was keeping all the goods to himself.

He bolted the minute he saw the mob of Junkers approaching his dingy old shack, leaving town in the dead of night with only the clothes on his back, his bag of scavenged goods, and the location of the treasure embedded in his maddened mind.

He ran. He ran until the angry screams and stomping of rusted metal boots and bare feet could not longer reach his ears. He jogged until the town disappeared from the horizon. He walked until his peg leg threatened to give out underneath him. He limped until he collapsed into a small patch of brush, exhausted and out of breath. Then he was out cold. By the time morning came, the sun turned the reddish sand burning hot and illuminated his surroundings. All he saw was the same damn thing all around him; sand as far as the eyes could see. No Omnium ruins, no rusty old buildings, no scrap heaps, and, as much as he'd hated them now, no people bustling about around him.

He was alone.

A rumbling in his gut brought him back to the present, jerking his attention away from the unchanging horizon. He rubbed a soot-covered hand across his stomach, deeply regretting his choice of finishing the last of his kangaroo jerky the night before. He scanned the area for something, anything, to eat. Sand, sand, more blasted sand. He wasn't going to resort to that, at least not yet.

His eyes landed on a pygmy goanna skittering across the ground. It's light brown skin and white spots contrasted against the warm, red sand. A sly smile splayed across his cracked lips. Junkrat moved in for the kill.

He maintained a fair enough distance between him and his soon-to-be-snack, one where he can see the little bugger without startling it. He watched as the lizard scuttled towards a nearby rock and wriggled its way to the top. It sat there, perched on the smooth grey surface. Junkrat circled around it, hoping to sneak up to it from behind. He took a few steps forward, slow, careful...

The little creature twisted its head around, met with the hungry, wild gaze of the scrawny man. It tilted it's head a bit, almost teasingly. It's beady black eyes stared at Junkrat, almost daring.

He took a step forward, his peg leg creaked loudly underneath him. He quickly brought a hand up to his lips, shushing the noise, before realizing what he was doing; shushing himself. _If I don't get something to eat I'm gonna go batty_ , he thought. Well, even more so.

The creature quickly turned away upon hearing the sound of the shushing and jumped off the rock, quickly scurrying away in the opposite direction. Junkrat stood there in shock, staring at the barren stone. Shock soon turned to anger.

"GET BACK HERE YOU LITTLE-"

He hobbled after the lizard, leaping over the rock and trying to catch up to it. It was damn fast, and he followed it for a good fifty metres before he started to tire out. His peg leg creaked with each step, his mouth curled into a menacing snarl, and his stomach constricted due to the stress of catching the damn thing. But he wasn't about to give up that easily.

He tried a number of different tactics. At first, he put a little more distance between him and goanna until it stopped running, then snuck up behind it like the first time. Didn't work, it got alerted by his presence and sped away. Then he tried to outrun it and cut it off but his peg leg was starting to buckle and creak and he knew that if it broke then he'd pretty much be good as dead out here. Finally, after many failed attempts, he decided to just lob a 'nade at it and blow it's legs off, despite his bomb supply being at an all time low. His eyes lit up at the explosion, turning the already amber colour into a more fiery shade.

God he loved blowing shit up.

The bomb flung the lizard high into the air, and it landed on the sand with a thud. Surprisingly, it didn't lose any limbs so he had to act fast. Junkrat wasted no time and dove after it, cupping the lizard in his hands, letting out a victorious cackle. He tightened the grip around the animal as it squirmed, and quickly slid a hand around its neck and torso. The poor thing tried biting at him, tried to wiggle from his grasp, but he kept a firm hold on it. "Gave me a lot of trouble there, little guy," he giggled, his grip becoming tighter and tighter. The lizard spasmed violently as the air slowly escaped from its tiny lungs. It twitched one last time before going limp in his hands. Junkrat sighed with contentment, bringing the goanna close to his mouth, teeth bared and ready to tear into its skin. He paused. Something wasn't right...

It was too quiet.

The large mutated cicadas had stopped calling out to each other from the sparse eucalyptus trees. Those damn things were the size of his forearm and they never shut up. So naturally, the absence of their irritating buzzing made Junkrat's ears feel empty.

He didn't like this. The sun was at its highest and the bugs weren't supposed to stop their incessant noise until the sun dipped low into the horizon. Something, or someone, must have startled them away.

His neck twitched as footsteps slowly approached him. He just froze there, on his knees, clutching the goanna tightly as a large shadow loomed over him. He was starting to regret wasting that bomb to catch this thing. For damn sure he was going to need more than three bombs to finish these guys off. And, ah shit, he had used the last of his concussion mines yesterday to snatch a honeycomb from high above in the trees, so that was out of the question. He was thinking, thinking of a way to get out of this, a way to avoid using up his arsenal. Think, think, think.

A low chuckle made Junkrat's shoulders tense up, and he snapped his neck around to face the source.

He saw the glint of metal first. Makeshift metal armour, metal masks that covered half their faces, metal weapons... He gulped.

Junkers. They were goddamn Junkers. Four of them, positioning themselves so that they surrounded him like directions surround a compass.

They found him. How the fuck did they find him?

Another chuckle escaped from the man he faced, low and laced with madness, much like his own. "Fancy running into you out 'ere, 'Rat." He opened and closed the garden shears in his hand, revealing a toothy grin with missing teeth. "How's the Outback been?"

Junkrat shakily stood up from his place, his peg leg dug into the rough sand. What he lacked in strength he made up for through sheer height alone. Even with a missing calf and foot, he towered over the men. He saw a brief flash of intimidation across their faces before they contorted back into hungry, greedy snarls.

Despite his situation, Junkrat couldn't help but laugh, though there was a hint of nervousness in his voice, "Cut to the chase, mate. I know what you really want." He slowly reached into his back pocket, feeling for the familiar smooth surface of his grenade. _Not yet_ , he told himself, _not yet_. Humour them.

The leader stepped in closer, exposing the blades of his weapon dangerously close to Junkrat's face. "Then get on with it, Scavenger. Tell us where the damn treasure is!"

He was only looking at the leader, but Junkrat could feel the others closing in on him.

_Now._

He brought a hand up to pull off the pin of the grenade. He was just about ready to toss it right in this wankers face and make a quick getaway, hopefully avoiding the rest of his men in the process. But before the pin could be fully removed, he was struck across the back of the head.

It was hard and sharp, and only when he collapsed onto the ground did he see that it was a nail-bat, the tips of the rusty nails dripping with his own blood. He let out a long wail, only to be cut off by a spiked metal boot stomping across his chest. The air was knocked out of him, and he writhed under the force of the man holding the bat leering over his injured form.

"Nuh uh uh, 'Rat," said the leader, though Junkrat couldn't see him. He couldn't see much of anything at this point. His ears were ringing, his head felt like splitting open, and black spots danced across his hazy vision. The man spoke up again, "We'll make you talk, you pathetic excuse for a Junker, no matter what it takes."

Junkrat's head painfully lolled to the side, and he could see that a pool of blood was already forming, soaked up by the surrounding sand. He was disoriented and he could barely see as he tried to focus his eyes on something moving in front of him.

The goanna. It stirred from its supposed death and squirmed until it regained its footing. It's little head shot upright, it's legs positioned in a sturdy stance as it stared at Junkrat with beady little eyes.  It tilted it's head again, as if to say, ha, that's what you get you lizard-killing bastard. With one last flick of the tongue, the goanna spun around and skittered away to freedom, it's little feet leaving behind dark red marks in the sand.

One more stomp to the chest, then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No lizards were harmed in the making of this chapter.  
> *debascas on tumblr and instagram*


	2. Crude Operation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Junkrat wishes for a miracle, and that miracle comes to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Outback in the Overwatch universe is an apocalyptic wasteland, right? I can only imagine there being a bunch of nasty, ruthless gangs running around causing havoc and carnage. I now present to thee my take on how Junkrat lost his arm. This is the first time I'm posting particularly gory stuff. Again, nothing too descriptive, just enough to get the message across. Please check the tags for any other warnings. Thanks for reading!

The gang of Junkers had followed Junkrat through the Outback ever since he skipped town. Well, at least that's what he overheard once he regained consciousness.

They managed to stay undetected by staying just below the horizon line to his left and right, watching his every move through binoculars. This hunt went on for a couple of days. Only when they saw the wanted Junker's dwindling health and growing desperation did they decide to strike. 

They made their advance, moving silently, always making sure they surrounded him on both sides. Like many of the group's that roamed the Outback, they were sneaky, they played dirty, and they were fully prepared to take Junkrat down at his most vulnerable moment. 

That moment just so happened to be when he was exhausted from days without proper sleep or food, low on weapons, and hobbling through the sand just to try and catch his next meal.  

"Did you see the way he chased that goanna?" One of the Junkers said, obviously amused at Junkrat's struggles at survival, "Pathetic, one-legged shit." 

The rest of the group laughed, the harsh noise piercing through the previous silence that settled onto the cold desert air. A few more insults were thrown around, some were friendly banter, but many were at Junkrat's expense.

"He really does look like a rat, always hunched over and scurrying around." 

"It's the hair too, mate. Mangy lookin' thing." 

"Makes him look like a fuckin' 50 year old." 

"He probably _is_ a fuckin' 50 year old." 

More ugly laughter. Junkrat's blood boiled and he resisted the urge to cuss them out right then and there. Last time he checked, everyone in the goddamn Outback looked ragged, dirty, and twice their age because of poverty and radiation! Who the hell were they to talk?

A sharp pain shot through the back of Junkrat's head like a bullet, making his whole body shudder and twitch. It took him a moment to recall the attack earlier that day, and this only helped to fuel his rage. He struggled against the restraints around his wrists and torso, and he bit down on his tongue to keep himself from hissing in pain. The last thing he wanted was to alert these guys of his awakening.

His eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. He could make out the Junkers' camp just mere metres away. They sat around the small fire, the glow of the flames illuminating their masks. Oh how he wanted to rip off those crude metal face plates and smack them upside the head with it. 

Though he really couldn't do much in his current position. 

He was bound to a boulder conveniently situated near the large stone formation behind the camp. The boulder was rugged, to say the least. It poked and scratched his back with even the slightest movement. He noticed the lack of mobility in his lower body and looked down, annoyed to find a chain wrapped numerous times around the rock and his hips. Those assholes couldn't have picked a nicer place to tie him up to? 

Fortunately, the boulder was near the edge of the camp and wasn't illuminated by the fire's flames, so they couldn't see his efforts in trying to escape unless they looked right at him. With teeth sharp enough to chew on metal, he began to gnaw at the rope around his wrists, hoping to cut away at the fibres.  

_C'mon, c'mon, c'mon..._

A wave of vulnerability hit him when he noticed the absence of his weapons. His eyes scanned the surrounding area and he could make out the faint outline of his grenade straps and ruck sack a few steps away. The sooner he got his stuff back, the better.

_Almost there._

"Oi... you guys hear something?"

"Probably just a dingo." 

"No, no, it sounds like-"

Junkrat managed to chew about halfway through until he and another Junker made eye contact; amber ones meeting another pair shrouded in the shadows of rusty iron.

_Shit._

"The bloody hell are you doing, 'Rat?" 

Junkrat could have sworn that he heard bones cracking as the rest of the men snapped their heads toward him. One of them punched the guy asking the terribly stupid question on the shoulder. "What the fuck else would he be doing? He's trying to escape, dipshit!" 

"Quit yammerin' and stop him, idiots!" Junkrat recognized the leader's voice. The man reached behind the rock he sat on and hastily pulled out the garden shears. Its rusty blades glinted against the moonlight as he made his way towards the boulder. The rest of his men followed. 

Junkrat chewed faster, rope fibres getting stuck in his teeth. His attention flickered between escaping and the angry group closing in on him. "Don't fucking come any closer!"  

A hand was on his throat before he could say anything else. 

"What's the matter, 'Rat?" The leader's fingers tightened with each word, his dirty nails digging into the sunburnt flesh. "Don't like the company?" The red glow of the fire gave the men a hellish aura, and Junkrat was looking into the eyes of death himself. He wheezed under the leader's chokehold, and a broken cackle escaped him. The leader's sadistic smile faltered for a mere second. 

Then he squeezed harder.

The edges of Junkrat's vision became blurry. His laughter abruptly subsided and was replaced with strained coughing. "Killing me isn't the answer, mate."

"Then maybe you'll answer this," The leader's masked face was close to Junkrat's now. Too close. "Where's the treasure?" It was more of a command than a question. 

"Ain't _telling_ you-"

"Actually," the leader interrupted, "Better yet, you'll be the one to bring us there. How's that sound boys?" 

A series of whoops and hollers rang through Junkrat's ears. One of the men patted the leader on the shoulder as he cheered, "Good idea, Chief! Use these chains as a leash."

"Have us our own personal tracking rat!" Another added. More ugly, mocking laughter, accompanied by the crackling of the fire's embers.

A loud, deranged howl broke up the gang's short-lived celebration. The men grew quiet. They looked on in horror as their leader doubled over, releasing his grasp from Junkrat's neck. He laid on the sand in the fetal position, screaming, swearing and pointing at their captive, "The piece of shit kicked me in the balls!" 

The men quickly turned their attention to the Junker, surprised to see that his peg leg had been extended to crotch-level. Junkrat's laughter turned into manic giggles, "Whoopsie." He threw his neck back, practically slamming his injured head against the rock as he let out another howl. As if someone flipped a switch, Junkrat's face contorted from pure frenzied joy into a growling snarl. "Like hell I'm going to lead you bastards to my treasure," he spat, "You're not taking it, you hear me? It's mine!" 

The rest of the gang were floored. Absolutely stunned. They could only wait as their leader recovered before any further action could be taken. Moments passed before their boss shakily got to his feet. 

"You... You're going to regret that." 

The calm in the man's voice unnerved Junkrat more than anything. The leader's sick smile returned, and he beckoned for two others to hold their captive down, pinning his arms and legs across the rock as he twisted violently in protest. He recovered his weapon on the ground, opening and closing the shears with each step. "If we can't take your treasure, then we'll just have to take something else now, would we? We noticed the lack of... _symmetry_ on your right side there." 

_No, no, no..._

With the snap of a finger, Junkrat's right arm was lifted and placed into the open blades of the shears, right at the bend of the elbow. "Let's fix that, 'Rat." 

"O-Oi! What are you-?" A sweaty hand was clamped over Junkrat's mouth. He tasted metal and rust. A small trickle of warm, dark liquid ran down his forearm as the blades rested against his skin. "No, no, no stop-!"

"Make sure he watches this." 

Muffled pleas and cries echoed through the camp like a broken record. The hand covering Junkrat's mouth slapped his face hard before pressing his right cheek against the rough surface. A chill ran through his spine, and he could only scream and curse and try to break free as his arm sat uselessly in the weapon's jaws. "You bastards!” He screeched, voice altered due to his face being pressed down, “You bloody bastards! I'll kill all of you-!"

A sharp gasp jolted through the captive as the blades cut through the surface of his skin, sending a searing, burning pain through his nerves. He felt it, he felt every cut, every slice, the tearing of muscles and flesh, the cracking of bones. Oh gods, there was blood, so much blood, flowing from the gaping wound and staining the sand. His screams and curses were drowned out by the malicious laughter of the other men. They enjoyed this, enjoyed watching him suffer and squirm like some tortured animal. Merciless bastards...

The cruel act dragged on for far too long. It seemed like years before the rusty blades made the last cut. A resounding plop resonated through the campsite, indicating that the damage was done.

The newly severed limb laid in the sand beside the captive, unmoving, and one end ripped to shreds. 

The leader stepped back, shears in hand, fingers stained red, and admired his handy work. Junkrat had stopped looking by then; he forced himself to look away, to focus on the full moon looming over them. But he hadn't stopped screaming. The stinging, burning pain continued to run through his veins like molten lava. This, accompanied by the frigid desert air, produced a pain that couldn't be described by even the most eloquent Junker. 

Junkrat screamed. He screamed until his voice was hoarse and all that came out were pitiful whimpers. His throat was dry, raw, and he was pretty sure his vocal cords were ripped to shreds too. 

He didn't want to die. 

Not like this. Not by their hands. 

Grimacing, he stared at the moon, face stained with tears, and, for the first time in years, he prayed, albeit silently and grudgingly. He prayed to someone, to anyone, who was listening; prayed for his rescue. 

_Face it, no one's gonna help you._

There was a flicker of a memory, one of those rare moments when Junkrat remembered; a woman in a chair, a book in her hands, reaching out to him, mouthing words that he just couldn't quite catch... 

"Ah, fixed it," The leader wiped his hands on his pants, smearing the crimson liquid across the dirty fabric, "All better. Right, 'Rat?" 

A shrill scream and flailing limbs caused the men to jump back. "MONSTERS! Bloody animals! I'll fucking kill you-!" Junkrat fought against his restraints, ignoring the pain, too shocked and angry to even feel it, as he went on full berserk mode. "If you think I'm leading your smelly arses to my treasure you've got another thing coming! I'll kill all of you!" A sudden kick to the stomach forced the air out of him, and he doubled over the chains, wheezing and hacking, swearing under his strained breath. 

"Shut up!" The leader stood in a sturdy stance, hands on his hips, and shook his head disapprovingly, "If you won't be cooperative, then we'll have to do something about your _other_ arm, mate! Boys, hold him down-"

“Uh, boss?” One of the other men whispered, “Do you hear that…?”

Before the leader could snap his fingers, the unmistakable roar of a motorcycle engine approached the camp. Not even seconds later, something came flying towards the small group congregating around the red-stained rock, hooking one of the subordinates around the neck, and pulling him into the darkness with one swift motion. The man's distant screams were silenced almost immediately with the crunching of bones and strangled breaths. A brief moment of quiet, then he was carelessly thrown into the small fire, snuffing it out. The camp was plunged into darkness. 

Everyone panicked. 

"T-they killed-!" 

"Shut up!" The leader growled, "Get ready." 

The remaining three turned away from their captive, weapons raised and feet planted firmly in the sand. From the faint glow of the moonlight Junkrat could see they were scared, fingers trembling, knees shaking. The absence of the fire's embers only added to the suspense. 

Another rattle of chains, something flying through the shadows, a choked cry, more screaming that grew distant as the victim was dragged away. 

Then silence. 

It was a pattern; a cruel and efficient pattern that repeated until there was one man left standing. 

Footsteps approached Junkrat and the leader, slow, lumbering, menacing. Soon, a mountain of a man came into view, hook in hand, brass knuckles glinting, gas mask in tow. Junkrat could just barely make out the tattoo on his stomach.

"H-hey mate, fancy running into you 'ere." The leader put his hands up defensively, dropping the shears with a definitive thud. He knew he didn’t stand a chance against this behemoth. "This isn't really what it looks like-" 

"Shut up." 

The new voice was low, gruff, distorted by the gas mask. It was the polar opposite of Junkrat's own raspy and animated tone. 

"You're pissed. Okay, I get it. Listen, 'Hog, why don't you let me off with a warning and I'll be on my merry-ACK!" 

The hook wrapped around the leader's neck, and the barrel of a massive yellow gun was placed under his chin. 

"P-please, mate, it won't happen again." 

"I should have hunted you down earlier-”

"Please, I swear. Have mercy!" 

The giant used the hook to pull the other up higher, his feet leaving the ground.

"Mercy's not in my vocabulary." 

Without warning, a deafening bang reverberated through the air. Junkrat winced as shrapnel and metal scrap rained down on him, along with blood and bits of flesh and brain matter. With a flick of the wrist, the giant tossed the decapitated man into the extinguished fire pit along with the rest of his mates. Junkrat looked up at the imminent figure now standing in front of him. He stared, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Not in fear, but in complete awe. 

"H-holy... _shit_."

That was the last thing he said before the blood loss caught up to him. His head spun, his stomach churned, blood continued to gush from the tattered wound, and the edges of his vision became blurry again. He fought the urge to pass out, but ultimately gave in, going limp... 

And falling into large hands that steadied him. 

The man grunted, "Gotta get to the next town before I hand you over to them." 

Junkrat didn't know who "them" was, but anything was better than being tied up and left to rot with the rest of the deceased. Or maybe that was the blood loss talking.

"Need to stop the bleeding. You're no good to anyone dead." 

Junkrat merely nodded, too weak to fight the man as he broke the chains with ease and scooped him into his hands. A small laugh escaped him, wracking his thin body before dissolving into a coughing fit. Funny, the guy who just wiped a Junker gang off the face of the earth was cradling him in his arms. 

Junkrat closed his eyes, groaning as the adrenaline wore off and the stinging returned. The pain was too much. As he slipped away he saw the woman again, her hands ruffling his hair, and this time he could make out her words.

_Ask and you shall receive._

The faint hiss of buckles unclasping brought Junkrat back to reality. A large hand and something rubbery covered his face, further obscuring his vision. Thick fingers pinched the sides of Junkrat's head, making the mask airtight, and he squirmed at the gesture. 

"Breathe." Came the gruff command. 

The smaller Junker did so, inhaling the thick gas that diffused into the mask. He sighed; after a few shaky breaths, the stinging diminished, and maybe it was the blood loss talking again but he could have sworn that new skin was ever so slowly stretching over the wound. The hand lifted from his head, and he could make out one of the man's eyes through the almost opaque lens of the gas mask. 

Another deep breath, then Junkrat was out cold before he could take a better look. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summer School is a pain right now but I'll be writing my exams next week so hopefully I'll be able to post more frequently! Thanks again for reading, you lovely people.


	3. The Innkeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One Man Apocalypse has a soft spot for sweet old ladies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who has two thumbs and studies for their exams last minute... this girl!  
> I'm a terrible procrastinator so instead of reviewing like a good student should, I've been writing, and I'm back with a quick update before Judgement Day (aka Exam Day same thing). 'Rat spends most of this chapter passed out but i promise he'll be up and running around in the next one. Thank you so much to everyone who left comments and kudos!!! I get really giddy when people take the time to leave comments, I love reading them and I appreciate every single one. Heck, i appreciate anyone who reads this story! Anyways, enough rambling, on to the show!

There were many things in the world that pissed Roadhog off.

Taking off his gas mask was one of them.

He didn't have much choice in the matter, he supposed, considering that he had a job to do. Multiple, actually. People willing to pay him big cash were always asking for favours. The current job in question was to find the Junker gang going around mutilating people for shits and giggles, then effectively take them out. His current employers wanted them dead after they targeted their nephew and left him to die in the desert, all four limbs missing.

Check. He can cross _that_ off his to-do-list.

It hadn't surprised Roadhog at all when the gang didn't put up much of a fight. His enormous size and cold demeanor were enough to keep even the most feral and vicious Outback residents at bay. Plus, scum like them preferred to target those they deemed weak. Men, women, children, Junkers with a peg leg and stupid haircut, you name it. But the minute they come across someone who can easily break them in two, they cower and beg for forgiveness. Roadhog scoffed.

Typical.

Now on to the next job. One that involved the Junker with a peg leg and stupid haircut currently passed out in his arms. Maybe it was pure luck that he managed to track down two different jobs at once. Killing two birds with one stone, as people say.

Yes, Roadhog absolutely hated taking off his gas mask, but he couldn't just let the guy bleed out to death. At least, not until he delivers him to the big shots in Junkertown and gets paid. The second the injured man lost consciousness, he quickly put the gas mask back on, sighing in relief when their faces were separated once more.

The other Junker barely moved as Roadhog lumbered back to his beloved bike. He was ghostly pale underneath all the soot and dirt, his lips were crusty, and his breath came out in short, laboured bursts. The stump that was once connected to a forearm twitched with each rise and fall of his chest. If Roadhog wasn't so desensitized to the horrors of the Outback, he might have felt sorry for the guy.

But he's seen too much, been the cause of too much, and he knew that this was merely another casualty.

Carefully, he lifted a leg across the seat and lowered himself down, trying not to disturb the man as his weight lowered the bike's frame with creaks and groans. Even more carefully, he laid the sleeping man across his lap, positioning him so that he laid snugly across his belly. It would be a hassle to have to pull over and pick up the little prick if he got tossed off the bike.

Even so, this much physical contact with another person, one that didn't involve his fists, made Roadhog... nauseous.

It took about three hours to get to the closest town. During the trip, the injured man hadn't caused too much trouble, save for that one time when they were about halfway to their destination. He was beginning to come to his senses, fidgeting and wriggling against Roadhog's stomach. He wanted to smother the guy back to sleep, but he was met with quiet giggling before he could take a hand off the handlebars.

When he looked down the little shit was _smiling_. High as a kite. He stared at Roadhog's stomach with half-lidded eyes, a crooked grin stretched across his face. He ran long, thin fingers across the tattoo, tracing the outlines of the flames, scratching the pig in the middle like he expected it to be real, and worst of all, poked at Roadhog's belly button while making faint snorting noises. Giggling like a madman all the while.

"Cute little piggy."

That was the last straw. Roadhog swiftly pressed a massive hand across the man's face, keeping it there until he stopped squirming, and placed it on the handle bar once he was passed out yet again.

 _Strange,_ was the first word that came to Roadhog's mind. 

Judging by the looks and whispers that stirred among the residents once he rode into town, they must have known about the treasure. In the span of two weeks, everyone in the Outback knew that the Junker in his lap had found something valuable in the wreckage of the Omnium. So valuable, in fact, that many hunted him down for it. Many were prepared to kill him for it. To be completely honest, he was surprised that the man managed to last this long without dying. _A real trooper_ , Roadhog thought sarcastically. Fortunately, the townsfolk kept their distance. After all, who in their right mind would dare confront Roadhog, the notorious Enforcer of the Outback?

But through the gas mask he could see their grudging respect. Their jealousy. Their greed. Their hunger for the sleeping man's blood. Roadhog was skeptical about the Junker's findings, but now?

Now he was curious.

The engine sputtered to a halt when he parked at the back of the inn. He scanned the area, pleased to see that only a few other bikes were present. Not a lot of people tonight. Good. With a grunt, he scooped up the shorter Junker and made his way towards the back door. The porch creaked and groaned under his weight, but it managed to hold. It always did. Before he could knock against the rotting wood, the door swung inwards, revealing a tiny figure on the other side.

"Mako."

"Good to see you again, Kip."

The old woman chuckled, hefting the large sack she was dragging onto her shoulder. "Perfect timing, I was just about to toss the trash."

Roadhog stepped out of the way as the woman shuffled past him. He followed behind her, and opened the lid of the dumpster as she tossed the bag into the bin. "Good thing you showed up, otherwise I'd have to climb those boxes just to get the damn thing open." She nodded to a pile of crates arranged in a staircase, and she let out a big hearty laugh, one that didn't match her small, stout, and frail appearance. The corners of Roadhog's mouth tugged upwards as the woman led them inside, still laughing. "Who's your _friend_?" She finally questioned, pointing a wrinkled finger at the man curled up in his arm, putting a special emphasis on the last word.

"He's not-"

"Oh, I'm just teasing, dear. I know who he is."

_Who doesn't?_

"The peg leg was a dead giveaway."

_Of course it was._

"I mean, I know we Junkers are a little rough around the edges, but anyone prefers the practicality of an actual prosthetic leg. Technological advancement and innovation and what not."

She had a point.

"Good thing you found him before everyone else did. You won't believe the kind of shit I've overheard about hunting the guy down. Hopefully he didn't get too scuffed up."

Behind the mask, Roadhog frowned. He shook his head, and with two large fingers he lifted the man's stump, waving it at the old woman. The soft smile on her face disappeared, replaced by furrowed brows and thin lips set in a flat line. "Jesus Christ." She didn't even have to ask who did it. Having known the elder for years now, Roadhog had confided in her of his current endeavours just days ago when he last stopped by the quaint little inn. The old woman was fully aware of the gang related activities that took place beyond the safety of the town's barriers. "You...?" She made a slicing motion at her throat. "They're dead now, yeah?"

Roadhog nodded.

She nodded too, seemingly pleased, and started walking. "You're awfully good at your job, Sonny."

Kip got them a room on the first floor, close to the entrance of the basement bar. She stuck her head out of the doorway, scanning both ends of the hallway, before locking the door behind them with a quiet click. She tossed Roadhog the room key and took a seat on the dusty old recliner, watching him intently as he placed the sleeping man onto one of the twin beds. "So...what's the plan?"

Roadhog grunted, stretching his shoulders to relieve his aching muscles and to hear the satisfying pop of his joints. He plopped down on the other bed. "Rest for the night. Then it's back to Junkertown in the morning."

She nodded, shifting in the recliner, her slippers hovering above the carpet. "If I were you, I'd get some answers from him," she pointed at the unmoving man, "See what all this treasure business is about."

Roadhog snorted with quiet laughter, the springs of the bed creaking with each rumble, "I was thinking the same thing."

She winked at him, "Sure you were."

Distant shouts and the distinct smash of a beer bottle made Kip stand up, cursing under her breath. "Swear to God if they broke something someone's gonna get a bullet in the face." She stomped towards the door, pulled it open, and shouted threats at the other patrons down the hallway. Before leaving the room she turned to Roadhog, smiling at him sweetly, "Let me know if you need anything, Sonny."

And with those parting words, the door closed, leaving the two Junkers alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kip totally ships Roadrat guys, not gonna lie. Also, I'm debascas on tumblr.com, so feel free to drop a message!


	4. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog's not a therapist, not by a long shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup lovely people. Exams still aren't done and I just spent the last two days writing instead of studying but it's all good. Hope you like the fourth installment of this story and once again thanks for all the supportive comments :)

The plan was to stay the night. Nothing more, nothing less. Just _one_ night so Roadhog could get the well deserved break he needed after days of relentless travelling.

Once Kip left the room, he made sure to lock the door, close the curtains, and take off the other Junker's peg leg to keep him from escaping. The high caused by the hogdrogen would wear off in a couple of hours and Roadhog couldn't take the risk. As he gingerly unbuckled the straps that connected bright orange metal to flesh, something stirred within his chest that made him stop, large hands frozen above the sleeping captive.

He didn't know why, but it just didn't seem _right_.

Roadhog was a man of few words and all action. He was cruel. He was calculating. He was ruthless. He was damn good at his job.

And yet, here he was, deciding whether or not it was _fair_ to further immobilize an already disabled man.

_If he wakes up in the middle of the night and jumps out the window, you can kiss that treasure goodbye._

He's not much of a threat.

_Just do it._

He's already so weak.

_Quick and easy, like taking off a band aid._

His arm-

_You're going soft, ‘Hog. Keep that shit up and you're definitely not getting paid._

A low growl filtered through the gas mask before Roadhog went through with it. With one quick pull the leg was off, revealing a swollen red stump etched in scars. He tried not to stare as he set the hunk of metal on the nightstand furthest away from the other Junker.

_Good, now there's no chance he'll run off. Can't run with only one leg._

"Shut up," he grumbled, running a hand through silver hair. Goddamn he was tired; so exhausted from the past few days that he was now talking to himself. Burned out to the point that he was out like a light the second his head hit the pillow.

It was the sound of smashed glass that jerked Roadhog awake mere hours later. He shot up from the mattress, listening, waiting. Seconds passed as his eyes adjusted to the pitch black darkness, and the first thing he did was to check the room's lone window for any damages. None. It was just as he left it. He felt around on the nightstand, and sighed in relief when his fingers brushed against the tip of the peg leg. He turned his attention to the bed beside him, only to find it empty, pillows and sheets strewn about on the grimy old carpet.

_Shit._

Roadhog flicked the lamp on and a wave of faint yellow light flooded the room. He quickly got up from the mattress when he spotted the hand prints staining the walls, left by the sooty palm of the other Junker. The Enforcer had no idea how the little prick managed to get around with only half of his limbs intact. He followed the marks, some smearing across the wall in streaks, indicating that the man had slipped a few times before regaining his balance. Roadhog knew he couldn't get far, and soon the hand prints came to a halt right at the bathroom door entrance.

It was locked. Light emitted from the crack underneath the door, and Roadhog could make out the sound of running water and... crying?

_Oh for fucks sake._

He brought a hand up, ready to punch a hole through the wood, before he heard another sob. The crying coming from the other Junker was a different kind of pathetic. It wasn't like the pleas and cries for mercy Roadhog heard when he snagged someone at the end of his hook. It was...a genuine anguish and sadness that he hadn't heard in years. The only time he's had the displeasure of hearing crying like this was a long time ago...shortly after things went to shit. 

He shook his head. Enough, no looking back. Now is the time. He needed to get the little prick out of there somehow. But a lump formed in his throat and he couldn't find the right words. In what way could he even approach this? By confrontation? His fists? Both?

He decided to use the former. Clearing his throat, he knocked on the door in rapid succession, causing the muffled sobbing to stop. "The hell are you doing in there?"

The sound of running water was his response.

"Will you turn off the damn faucet? Water's scarce."

"...Fuck off." The other man's voice was a raspy, shaky whisper, with a hint of hostility.

Roadhog's fists clenched. "What?"

" _Fuck. Off._ "

That's it. That's fucking it. If the prick won't cooperate then it's time for plan B. Kip was going to kill him for this once she found out but without wasting another damn second Roadhog punched right through the door, causing the other Junker to yelp and slip, landing on the floor with an echoing thud.

Roadhog reached through the hole and unlocked the brass handle before kicking the remaining wood open with a steel-toed boot. He slowly advanced towards the man, who was scrambling backwards with his two remaining limbs until his back was against the wall. _Like a damn inch worm_ , Roadhog thought. It took him a moment to notice the shattered mirror and the bloodied hand. "What did you _do_?" The tension that settled between the Junkers was thick, thick enough for Roadhog to cut clean through it with his hook, and only made worse by the cramped space of the bathroom. He waited, glaring down at bloodshot orange eyes.

The other man was breathing heavily now, wiping away the tears, smearing the soot across his face, further pressing against the cold tiles, curling in on himself. He cradled his bloody knuckles against his chest as he bared razor sharp teeth at the giant blocking the doorway. "What else, huh...? What fucking else!?"

Roadhog blinked. "What-?"

"Don't fucking play stupid."

"You're not making sense."

_"What else are you going to take from me?!"_

The words were amplified, echoing between the men as they bounced off the tiles. Roadhog knelt down so they could be at eye level. A large firm hand was on the smaller Junker's shoulder before he could react. "Listen here you little shit. I didn't do  _this_." He jabbed a finger at the trembling stump, making the Junker flinch. " _I saved your damn life._ The least you could do is-"

"Oh so now I _owe_ you?," the man spat, squirming under the giant's vice-like grip. "I damn well know who you are. The living legend himself. The infamous Outback Enforcer who kills for anyone that waves a wad of cash in his face. Well news flash, tubby, I don't owe anyone jack shit, especially not _you_!"

Tubby?

Roadhog's patience was running terribly thin. The hand gripping the other man's shoulder was now at his throat. He really didn't expect the manic cackles from the other Junker, yet here he was, laughing like a fucking hyena between each strained breath.

"Do it, you big oaf."

Roadhog's other hand casted a shadow across the man's face as he reeled back a large fist, finding the perfect position so he can knock the guy out with one clean hit.

"Go ahead, mate."

_I'll do it._

"Punch the cripple."

Fuck _._

A moment's hesitation, then the smaller man spoke again, "…You're not the first." The words came out small and meek, like an afterthought, but Roadhog heard them.

Much to both of their surprise, Roadhog lowered his fist. The wave of relief was visible on the other Junker's expression, and he let out another quivering breath. An unexplainable shudder ran down the Enforcer's spine. _Cripple._ It was a taunt, right? It was clearly a taunt spoken to piss him off. A taunt that was said with so much underlying self-hatred and pain that Roadhog didn't know what to do anymore.

“...I’m just doing my job.”

“…I know.”

Silence fell between the two once again, save for the occasional sob that shook the smaller man's whole body as he was pinned against the tiles.

Both of them jumped when the room door creaked open.

"Mako?"

_Oh, shit._

Roadhog turned around, only to be met with the stern gaze of the little old woman, crossing her arms, and tapping her feet while she inspected the chaos.

"Kip." The Enforcer released his grip on the man's neck and stood from his position. "Sorry. Things got out of hand."

Kip peered behind Roadhog's massive structure, studying the bloody, sniveling Junker currently curled up beside the toilet. "No kidding, Sonny. You two woke up half the damn floor."

Roadhog scratched his neck awkwardly, "I'll pay for the damages."

"Hush, now. We'll talk about that later." She brushed past Roadhog, sweeping aside broken glass with a slippered foot, and knelt down in front of the injured man. She scanned him over, noticing the scars on the stumps and the way his arm was shaking. "Now, why did you go and mess up the place, dear?"

The Junker said nothing. He kept his eyes on the stump, blood still dripping from the various fresh cuts on his knuckles. Kip reached out to him, and he winced. "Don't-"

She pointed at the remains of his right arm. "Does it hurt?"

He nodded, still averting her gaze, curling in on himself even more.

"Hmm...phantom limb pains." She stated plainly. "You need to rest, dear." She stood up and brushed off her flowery night gown. "Alrighty, let's get you back to bed. Mako, help him up."

_Kip why..._

The Junker's face contorted into a snarl. "There's no way I'm letting that piggy bastard do anything for me."

She waved him off, "Don't be ridiculous. You can't sleep on the floor in your condition!" She wrapped a hand around Roadhog's pinky, and pulled his hand forwards. "C'mon Mako, we don't have all night."

Roadhog growled, silently seething, but he knew better than to question her. Grudgingly, he held out his hand and waited for the other's reaction.

The Junker just stared at it, neck and arm twitching, eyes glazed over, mouth hanging slightly. Roadhog could practically see the gears turning in the mans head. 

Kip cleared her throat. "Okay, dear, now it's your turn." She made her way over to him, and before he could protest she grabbed his hand and held it out to Roadhog's. "C'mon boys, I need my beauty sleep. Hurry it up."

God this was embarrassing. Roadhog grabbed the other man's hand before he could give it a second thought, pulling him up with probably too much force. The smaller Junker swore under his breath but Roadhog managed to steady him before lifting him up with ease. He carried him out of the bathroom within the bend of his arm, and Kip followed closely behind them.

"Oi, lard, gimme my fucking leg back."

"Call me that again and you'll be sleeping in the tub."

The old woman chuckled and turned to close the bathroom entrance. A scowl slowly spread across her face when she realized that what was left of the door was no longer attached to the hinges.

She’ll talk money with the Enforcer once the sun was out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls give Grandma Kip a round of applause for convincing those two rowdy assholes to hold hands God bless this woman.


	5. Outback Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in his life, Junkrat could finally relax.

If Junkrat had a dollar for every time someone hesitated to punch him...

He'd have only one dollar.

There was no doubt the Enforcer could've snapped his neck in the bathroom the night before. He could've easily ended his miserable life with those massive hands of his. Just one sure squeeze, or maybe a nice hard punch to the face and bam, that would be the end of it.

But he didn't hit him.

The heifer just stared, expression hidden behind the safety of that rubber mask, while he himself cried and wallowed in his own self-pity.

God, he was a mess last night. He couldn't find his peg leg in the dark, and it took every ounce of strength and willpower to make it to the bathroom and take a goddamn piss. The task was slow, tedious, his soot-covered hand left marks all over the wall behind the porcelain throne, and his bum leg rested on the rim. Worst of all, there was a mirror, and he could see what was left of him in it.

Blonde hair burned at the ends, still slightly smouldering somehow despite being matted down and drenched in sweat. A face with a pointy nose and orange eyes and a mouth set in a deep grimace. An incomplete body that leaned against the sink for support and he knew that if he lost balance he would come face first with the floor.

He hated this.

He hated them. The monsters. He hated that he could still hear their laughter, their insults, their cruelty. A deep anger welled up inside him, clawing at his chest and burrowing through his throat. His eyes were wet and cloudy, and his reflection became blurry. He rubbed at his face until his eyes stung, until his heart clenched, and he let out a strangled scream before smashing the glass with his remaining hand. He saw the blood before he felt the pain of crystal shards embedded in his skin.

There was a knock on the door and he grew angrier. Ugly thoughts and bad words left his mouth without thought, and he knew the man was going to break the door down. He knew that he was going to pin him against the wall. He knew that a massive hand was going to wrap around his neck. He knew that he was going to hit him.

But he didn't hit him.

He had the chance to hit him.

He lowered his fist instead.

Roadhog didn't do what he expected, and that confused Junkrat more than anything.

 

"Stay a couple more days."

"Kip, I don't have time for that. I need to get his scrawny ass back to Junkertown before they send dingos after me."

 

_They?_

Roadhog and Kip were standing in the empty hallway, speaking in hushed whispers. The Enforcer left the room thinking that he was asleep, but he had woken up to the sound of their voices and he could hear their conversation from his place in the bed. Junkrat shuddered at the mention of those mutated beasts, remembering the time he was cornered by a pack of them after wandering into an overrun scrapyard when he was a teenager. The encounter ended like most others did; with Junkrat tossing bombs galore and hobbling off in the other direction during the chaos. It was truly a beautiful explosion. Well, every explosion was beautiful in Junkrat's eyes, but that's beside the point.

 

"...Just another guy I was paid to hunt down."

"I know, I know. But he's different, sonny. He's got something useful in that noggin of his. Something so valuable that every bloke in the Outback wants their hands on it. And you just want to hand him off to some tosser with a few hundreds?"

"I _know_ about the treasure, and I've got ways of making him talk. But you know me, Kip. I always get paid."

"So... what you're saying is... you'll double cross the guys in Junkertown?"

"Exactly."

 

Ah, so that's why the bastard kept him alive.

 

The old woman laughed, "Risky. I like the way you think, Sonny."

 

Jesus Christ. First the assholes that cut off his arm, then the Enforcer, and now another band of Junkers? Junkrat was certainly gaining quite the reputation. He didn't like it.

 

"You hungry, Mako? I was just about to whip up some grub."

"I'll have the regular, please."

"How about the other dearie?"

"...Surprise him."

 

The old woman laughed again. The soft pitter patter of little feet indicated that Kip had left, and Roadhog would appear in the doorway any minute now. Junkrat closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. The door creaked open.

"I know you're awake."

_Damn it._

In his most convincing performance, Junkrat sat up and stretched his hand above his head, letting out an exaggerated yawn. "Dunno what you're talking about, mate. Been knocked out this whole time."

Roadhog said nothing. He lumbered to the bathroom, kicking aside pieces of the broken door.

Junkrat rolled his eyes and laid back down, "Well good morning to you too, asshole."

"I heard that," was the wheezy reply. From the other room, Junkrat heard the toilet flush. Gross. "Get out of bed, Kip's making breakfast."

Once the Enforcer mentioned food, Junkrat rubbed his stomach, remembering that he hadn't eaten since he was initially captured by the first gang. As if on cue, his gut growled, and his bum leg wasn't hurting so much anymore. He wriggled across the bed to retrieve his peg leg, putting it back on with experienced ease, and hobbled across the room towards the exit. He was itching to finally be up and about after two days of being mostly unconscious.

A large hand was on his shoulder before he could grab the doorknob.

"Don't go running off," was the low warning.

Junkrat tried to break free and scrambled for the door, but Roadhog pulled him back, "Oi, what gives? Let me go!" He tried biting at the hand, and that only earned him a shove towards the recliner. "You can't just keep me in here!"

"Quit making so much noise," the man rumbled.

Junkrat huffed and crossed his arms, or at least tried to, "I'm tired of just sitting around. I've already lost two days of my life, and I ain't planning on wasting any more of it!"

Roadhog crossed his arms too, still staring at Junkrat with that discerning gaze of his. Seconds passed before said anything. "People are going to see you."

"Oh yeah?" He snapped, "Well... they didn't do anything to me when I was hitched on your bike and riding into town!" Junkrat looked out the window, observing the unfamiliar scenery, "Where the bloody fuck even is this place?"

The Enforcer ignored his question. He was mulling over something, and before the shorter Junker could ask again he sighed and opened the door. "Fine. You can go out. But on one condition."

Junkrat eyed him suspiciously. "What is it?"

"You stick with me. At all times."

Junkrat opened his mouth, ready to scream insults at the Enforcer's absurd command. He stifled the urge to yell at him and actually thought about it, reflecting on the events of the last two days.

Since their first encounter, no one messed with him when the big guy was around, and when they did, it resulted with a hook wrapped around their neck or a gun in their face. The heifer was just like the rest of the drongos who wanted his treasure, except...

Roadhog hadn't tried to torture or kill him. Not yet at least. Junkrat felt a strange sense of relief at that. He sighed, running a hand through his hair and slumping in defeat. "Fine."

Roadhog grunted, pleased at the other man's compliance, and opened the door. Junkrat grinned and bounded out of the room like an eager dog being let out of the house. The two made their way to the kitchen, with Roadhog silently leading him through the building, making sure to avoid the other guests in the inn. He wondered just how often the big guy visited this place.

They found Kip standing on a stool, staring down at a huge pot of peculiar looking green soup. The stuff smelled good, but the way it bubbled and boiled made Junkrat question his appetite. He really wasn't one to complain though, after living off jerky, bugs, and other little critters he could get his hands on. The old woman turned around to give the men a small wave before grabbing the long wooden spoon to stir. Roadhog sat down on one of the chairs and Junkrat took the seat beside him, giggling when the old wood groaned underneath the man's enormous weight. The Enforcer said nothing, his attention occupied by the little menu in the middle of the table.

Junkrat was fidgety, even more so now that he was sitting in such close proximity to what was probably the most proper meal he's had in months, years even. Drool accumulated in the corner of his mouth and he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand. "Uh, hey Gran, what's cookin' in there?" He pointed at the pot, drool still dribbling down his chin.

Kip stopped humming and smiled at him. "Goanna Soup, dearie. The Inn's specialty."

Suddenly, Junkrat wasn't so hungry anymore.

The old woman's face dropped, "What's wrong? You're... looking a little pale there."

He didn't hear her. His mind was too far gone and vivid memories of that day flashed before him. The hot desert sun on his back, the desperation, the goanna, the way those damn garden shears glinted against the sunlight. The puncture wounds at the back of his head throbbed as he gripped the edge of the table, nails digging into the wood. His chest hurt and he couldn't breathe. Fuck. What the fuck. He was supposed to have a shitty memory. Years of radiation exposure would do that to a person. People in the Outback forgot things all the time, mostly things from the past. People, places, names, faces. Junkrat didn't even remember his mother's face. Yet, he remembered their masks. Crude metal face plates with two holes where soulless eyes should be. He didn't want to remember. Make it stop. Just make it stop.

A firm hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality. Junkrat flinched at the other man's touch and he scrambled away, standing up and breathing heavily. The Enforcer was staring at him. "Take it easy." He said, voice deep and stern through the mask. "It's in the past...Don't think about it."

It took a few moments for Junkrat to process the man's words. The past. Yeah, he was good at forgetting the past. He nodded slowly and tried to even out his breathing.

God, why was the heifer being so patient with him? Junkrat expected to be strangled to death by now, or be dragged back to Junkertown stuck to the end of the man's hook, not sitting here in a cozy kitchen waiting for breakfast to be served.

Kip stopped stirring the soup, a small frown deepening the wrinkles on her face, "Oh lord, I'm sorry dearie." She sounded genuinely apologetic. She didn't know what happened, she couldn't have, but she knew better than to ask. "If you want I can make something else for you."

"I'll help, Kip." Roadhog offered, getting up from his seat and making his way over to the stove.

Kip nodded, mumbling another apology and grabbing a nearby apron for the Enforcer to use. It was much too small for him, barely covering the tattoo on his belly, but he wore it anyway.

Speechless, Junkrat sat back down, still a bit shaken, eyes downcast and occasionally sneaking glances at the two working diligently by the stove. It just didn't make sense to him. He knew of the man's intentions. He knew he was going to force him back to Junkertown and use him as bait for some petty cash. He knew that the Enforcer and the little old lady were just another pair of greedy Junkers who wanted to take what was rightfully his. He knew, damn it.

But why were they being so hospitable?

Junkrat didn't know how much time passed, too occupied by his thoughts, when a plate of skewered cicadas was placed in front of him. He remembered the cicadas, but it didn't have the same effect on him as the goanna had. With bleary eyes, he looked up at the old woman. She smiled and nudged the plate closer to him before waddling back to join Roadhog at the stove. "Eat up, dearie. Gotta get some meat on those bones. You’re too scrawny."

Junkrat stared at the cicada, then at his hand, noting the protruding knuckles adorned with cuts and the way skin stretched over bones. Maybe she was right. He picked up a skewer, inspecting it with a skeptic's eye, before nibbling at the wing. Junkrat's eyes widened.

It tasted good, better than the food he normally scavenged for, and he took a large bite out of the head. Goddamn, this was good.

The old woman laughed again upon hearing the crunch, "Make sure you finish that."

Junkrat just nodded, still tearing chunks out of the bug, steam rising from the parts he bit off. He was about to compliment the meal before he stopped himself. He narrowed his eyes at the innkeeper as she and the other man scooped up spoonfuls of the soup. The Enforcer murmured something to her and they both laughed. The old woman's hearty cackling and the large man's wheezing chuckles resonated off the walls in the tiny kitchen. Junkrat set the skewer down, wiping bits of bug skin off his face.

They didn't try to kill him. They didn't torture him. Hell, they didn't even ask him about the treasure. At least, not yet.

They were feeding him. They gave him a bed to sleep in and a roof over his head.

Kip apologized. Roadhog snapped him back to reality... told him to forget.

It didn't make any sense. None of this made any fucking sense and Junkrat didn't know what to do. This strange sense of security wouldn't last, he knew that much. But he _wanted_ it to last. He could finally let his guard down after years of living in the garbage and remains of what used to be. He wanted it to last, he wanted to keep it so badly.

Roadhog brought two bowls of the soup to the table, opting to sit across from the other Junker while Kip finished washing dishes. The chair creaked and groaned under his weight again, but it held. It always did. He set one of the bowls down on his placemat, and the other in front of the empty seat next to him.

Junkrat watched the Enforcer, and the gears in his head started to turn. Fleeting thoughts moulded together, plots formulated, and finally… he knew what to do.

He had a plan, a proposal really. One that involved Roadhog whether he liked it or not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo this chapter turned out way longer than I expected. Good news, I'm finished summer school by Wednesday, which means more time to write! But first, I gotta do my chemistry, math, and physics exams D': Suffer now, write later. Thanks for reading!


	6. Karaoke Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drunk Junkrat is a confident Junkrat, much to Roadhog's annoyance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really dialogue heavy, but Junkrat finally pops the question!

The inn had a weekly tradition. Every Saturday night, the basement bar was transformed into a karaoke bar, much to Roadhog's dismay.

"Why karaoke?" He asked the Innkeeper once, cringing at the idea of watching the drunken patrons sing a few bars and humiliate themselves.

"My husband was Filipino, Sonny!" She winked and nudged his arm, "You know how those Filipinos love their karaoke."

He didn't. But hey, if she said so, then sure. Roadhog never met Kip's husband. He died over twenty years ago. But he apparently hosted every Karaoke Night since the couple opened the place, and Roadhog supposed she kept the event alive just for him. Although he could tell that Kip was immensely amused at the horribly bad talent, her laughter and banter usually being louder than the music.

"Just stay for Karaoke Night, Mako. You only ever come around town a few times a year. At least enjoy yourself before you have to go off again."

Roadhog sighed, knowing that he couldn't say no to the little old lady. "One more night. Just one. Then we'll be gone by morning."

The turnout was pretty good. Almost all of the tables were filled with rowdy alcoholics, bickering couples, tired travellers, and, of course, the resident Junkers that swung by the inn for the event. Kip was a well-known face around town, and she greeted everyone at the door with a smile and a slap on the back. "Welcome to the show!"

Roadhog sat at a table near the bar, a tiny cup of tea in his hand, and the twitchy Junker sitting beside him. The other man was staring at his own cup, lost in thought, fingers drumming against the old wood and sending vibrations across the surface. He hadn't even touched his drink, and each tap threatened to spill some over the sides of the cup. "Knock it off."

The drumming ceased, and the other man looked up, "Huh?"

Roadhog pointed at his hand, "Quit tapping the table. You'll spill your tea."

The other Junker rolled his eyes and scoffed, mumbling something under his breath.

Roadhog shook his head. Sassy little shit.

"I'm getting a drink," the Junker announced, standing up from his seat and hobbling his way over to the bar. Roadhog watched him limp through the sea of people. The man's uneven gait and the periodic tapping of his peg leg soon attracted the attention of the other guests. Kip was right, it was definitely the peg leg that people recognized.

They were staring at him. Just like when they first arrived in town. Once again, the Junker was met with glares of jealousy, looks of disgust, and stares of begrudging respect. People whispered to each other, some sneered, and some reached over their tables to grab their weapons.

_Help him._

He can handle himself.

_They're going to tear him apart._

Not on his watch.

 _Just_ help _him._

There was an angry shout coming from the other side of the room. One of the drunken patrons chucked a half-empty beer bottle at the Junker, nearly missing his head. The bottle hit the wall, sending glass shards and booze flying everywhere.

Roadhog shot up from his seat. Goddamn it. He shouldn't have brought him here. He should've just kept him locked in the room, where he'd be out of sight, where he wouldn't be a walking target.

"Oi arsehole! The fuck is your problem?" The Junker was seething, stopped dead centre and staring down the man from across the room. Roadhog could swear that the flames in his hair grew as intense as his anger.

The culprit was a mean-looking guy; muscular, wide bulk, arms thick as logs, and an ugly smile filled with crooked teeth. "The hell did you just call me?"

The Junker let out a mocking giggle, "What, now you're deaf, mate? I called you an arsehole!" he took a step closer with his flesh leg, "You're a roight ugly bastard too, if I've ever seen one."

Roadhog slapped his forehead in pure exasperation. Jesus Christ, the man needed to learn when to stop talking before he gets himself killed. Whispers of bets floated across the room; who would win? The treasure hunter missing an arm and leg, or the guy about three times bigger than him?

The culprit stopped smiling now. He cracked his knuckles and took a menacing step forward, "Wanna take this outside you twiggy piece of shit?"

"Square up you fuckin'-"

"Hey." Roadhog's voice was a force all on its own; a deep, booming sound that sent shivers down anyone's spine. When he talked, people listened. The quarrelling men froze and the room grew silent. They all waited for him, the notorious Enforcer, to say something. Roadhog took one long glance at the beer-tosser before nodding his head to the Junker. "Hey... get me a drink too."

There was a brief hint of confusion across both men's faces. The culprit glared at Roadhog, wide-eyed and slightly trembling, before sitting down, clearly defeated. He was huge, but Roadhog towered over him by about a foot and he knew better than to start shit with the Enforcer.

Meanwhile, the Junker stared, dumbfounded, "Uh... oh yeah! Sure thing, mate!" He flashed Roadhog a wide grin and stuck his tongue out at the beer-tosser, "Sorry, can't scrap right now. Gotta get my _friend_ here a nice beverage." He put a special emphasis on "friend," and hobbled with a newfound confidence towards the bar.

Roadhog sat back down. They weren't friends. He didn't even know the Junker's real name, only the moniker he went by. But at least people lowered their weapons now, and hopefully no one else threatens the little shit for the rest of the night.

The Junker returned with their drinks. Roadhog was slightly impressed that he could balance a tray of four tall glasses filled to the brim in one hand without spilling them. He carefully set the tray down and slid back into his seat. "I know you said one drink, but Gran said they were on the house."

Roadhog grabbed a glass. He looked over at the little old lady managing the bar, who waved and winked at him before returning her attention to the customers in line. A hidden smile tugged at the corners of Roadhog's mouth.

A horrible screech made him jump. His neck snapped towards the front of the room, and he internally groaned when he saw the shitty performance on the little stage. A couple of drunk guests had stumbled their way onto the platform, and we're now garbling obscure song lyrics while sharing a microphone. God, this was going to be a long night.

The other Junker had already chugged down a whole glass and was reaching over for his second one "Oi, 'Hog," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"I just..." He took another sip from his drink. His face was scrunched up, like he was trying to find the right words, "I wanted to say... thanks."

Roadhog's grip on the glass tightened. Thanks? "For what?"

"You know," He waved his hand around in the air, "For... what you did back there. Would've gotten my arse beat if you didn't say anything."

That was probably the last thing Roadhog expected to hear from him. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

The Junker continued, seemingly unaffected by his lack of a response, "Listen, I know we got off on the wrong foot. But you seem like a pretty ace bloke besides the whole, you know, dragging me back to Junkertown thing."

Oh, so he knew. Roadhog had a feeling the Junker overheard his and Kip's conversation earlier that morning. And did he just... _compliment_ him? What the hell?

The other man took another gulp of his drink, "The guys back home are willing to pay you a pretty tidy sum if you bring me back, yeah?" Again, Roadhog said nothing, but he rambled on. "Roight, I get it. Top secret info. Totally understand." It was clear that the Junker was a lightweight. His words were starting to slur after just two drinks, and he reached over to get a third glass, "Mind if I have yours, mate?"

Roadhog really didn't want to deal with a hangover tomorrow so he nudged it towards him. The Junker flashed him another stupid grin before grabbing the glass and taking another swig. "Anyways, what was I saying again? Oh! Roight, roight, you get the cash if you bring me back alive. Well, to be completely honest with you 'Hog, those blokes ain't worth your time and effort."

What was this fool going on about?

"I see you're a man of talent, 'Hog," the Junker let out a loud belch. Charming. "Quite an imposing individual. Takes no shit from anybody. A real force to be reckoned with."

That was true, all of it, but why was he buttering him up like this?

"It's all true, yeah? Pshh, of course it is! Otherwise I wouldn't be saying it!"

Roadhog rolled his eyes. Geez, enough with the praising already.

"You listening 'Hog? Sorry, I'm rambling. But just hear me out, and I'll make it worth your while."

He's _been_ listening. Just spit it out already-

The Junker took one last swig of his beer and slammed the empty glass down onto the table. He still had that stupid, shit-eating grin on his face, "I've got a proposition for you."

There it is.

Roadhog was all too familiar with the prospect of bargaining and propositioning. Along with the Australian dollar, they were the Outback's unofficial currencies. Hell, his entire career consisted of making deals with people who approached him with a job, debating on his pay (an argument which he _always_ won, mind you), and ignoring the empty promises of a "proposition" from anyone who found themselves at the end of his hook.

But Roadhog would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued. "...Go on."

The look on the other Junker's face was a mix of glee and nervousness, as if he wasn't expecting a response from him. He soon let out a giggle and the crooked smile returned on his gaunt features, "Okay, okay. So everyone's hunting me down for the thing I found in the Omnium, roight? It's why those damn crooks took my bloody arm, mate." The stump started to shake a bit as he said this, but he quickly massaged it with his hand, "And as you can see, everyone absolutely hates my guts. Like that wanker over there." He glared and jabbed an accusing finger at the guy from earlier, who was now at the mercy of Kip’s shotgun as she barked orders for him to clean up the beer-bottle shards, "Basically everyone here's out to get me."

Everyone in the Outback, actually. Roadhog nodded, showing that he was following the ramblings of this half-drunk Junker. Just get to the point already...

"But you, 'Hog, you're different." He tapped at the empty glass in his grasp, "To put it plainly, you haven't tried to kill me yet, mate. You and Gran. And I guess I'm just...grateful for that, I suppose."

If Roadhog wasn't speechless before then he definitely was now. No one ever said shit like "thanks" and "grateful" in the Outback. Especially not to someone of his profession. This was all wrong. Earlier that morning, the other man looked at him like he'd grown a second head, but now those orange eyes stared at him with...appreciation? Admiration? Roadhog couldn't tell. Maybe it was the alcohol.

"Geez, lost my train of thought there. Where was I...? Oh yeah! Ahem, anyways, enough of my petty problems. It's time I make you an offer, 'Hog." He dragged his chair closer to Roadhog's, and gestured for him to lean down so that they could be at eye level. Roadhog did, and the other man snaked an arm around his neck. It took every fibre of Roadhog's being to not punch the little shit in the face. Maybe he will later, once he heard this so-called offer. The other man let out a deep breath, as if bracing himself, "We should work together, mate."

Roadhog snorted and sat back up, escaping the other man's grip. He couldn't hold back the laughter, and soon his chuckles were replaced by coughing fits. What was this guy thinking? "That's funny. Real funny."

The look on the Junker's face was priceless. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open, and slightly offended. "What?"

Roadhog laughed again.

"You-" his face contorted into a scowl, "You're not taking me seriously."

Deep breaths 'Hog. At least hear the guy out. "No, no, continue."

The Junker huffed. Roadhog could smell the booze in his breath, even from behind the gas mask. "As I was saying, we should work together, 'Hog. You and I both know that I've got something valuable. And do you know what valuable things need?"

Roadhog raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"Protection, of course!"

Wow.

"That's where you come in, 'Hog. You're a large, intimidating bloke. See the way these drongos look at you? They're bloody scared! They cower in fear at your very presence!" The Junker was excited now, bouncing up and down in his seat, "Those are the qualities of a top notch bodyguard, don't you think?"

Bodyguard? He's got to be kidding. Roadhog was an Enforcer, a ruthless killer, a goddamn One Man Apocalypse, not some chump who plans on protecting this guy's scrawny ass. "What's in it for me?" The words left his mouth before he could stop himself, immediately regretting the question when he saw the other man's eyes light up.

"Fifty-fifty."

...What?

"You heard roight, mate. Fifty-fifty. Roight down the middle. I get one half of the treasure’s benefits, and _you_ ," he pointed a long finger at him, "My tubby friend, get the other half."

Roadhog thought long and hard about this. He didn't want to jump to conclusions, after all. He hated to admit it, but fifty-fifty was a good number. It was straight to the point. Cut out the bullshit. And, dare he say it, it was fair. Better than what his previous employers struggled to pay him. He watched the Junker, who looked up at him with half-lidded, hopeful eyes. The man was a twitchy, annoying, idiot who talked way too much, but he knew how to negotiate.

Before Roadhog could say anything, the Junker turned a pale shade of green, and threw up over the side of the table into a nearby bucket. Roadhog leaned back from the other man, who hacked out everything he'd consumed over the past few hours.

The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, and Roadhog finally noticed the sea of eyes staring at them. During his excessive rambling, the Junker didn't exactly keep his voice low, and there was no doubt that everyone in the damn room heard him. Once again, no one dared to say or do anything, simply because of the Enforcer's presence. Maybe the little shit had a point.

Besides, fifty-fifty was too good of a number to pass up.

Once the man was finished spewing his guts out, Roadhog clamped a hand over his shoulder. The Junker flinched and looked up at Roadhog with wide eyes, a nervous smile tugging the corners of his mouth. He giggled, "So, what do you say, big guy? Do we have ourselves a deal?"

Roadhog nodded, letting out a deep, wheezy, sadistic laugh that shook the whole room and made the other man grin, "Deal."


	7. Reckless Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat is really effin' drunk. Roadhog regrets his life decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm high on believing,  
> That you're in love with me.  
> -Hooked on a Feeling (Blue Swede, 1974)

The funny thing about being drunk is that it's only enjoyable for the person actually consuming the alcohol. 

Definitely not fun for the person who has to supervise them.

Definitely not fun for Roadhog.

He was a patient man. Patience was a crucial skill in the Outback. Patience was required in his profession (or ex-profession he should say, though it was too soon to tell). Waiting for a job offer, travelling for days on the beaten down desert highways, chasing after prey - both animal and human, waiting for just the right moment to strike...

All required patience. 

And the scrawny bastard he just agreed to protect was wearing his patience thin. Dangerously thin. 

"Oiiiii, 'Hoooog..." 

The piece of shit was absolutely hammered. Piss drunk. Tipsy beyond comprehension. Roadhog looked at the old clock above the bar. It's only been three hours since they're little agreement, though it felt like it's been three days. 

The other Junker was strange. Unstable. Reckless. Made stupid decisions. Did stupid things.

During the first hour he was antsy and fidgety. He made frequent trips to the bar, returning with a refilled platter of beer and a stupid grin on his face each time. He chugged the drinks like they were water, and not the irradiated kind. He spilled some onto the table and floor. Spilled some onto himself. Spilled some onto Roadhog. Made a complete fucking mess. Roadhog gritted his teeth. Before the other man could stand up to get more of his fill, a large hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his seat. "No. No more beer." 

Strike one. 

The second hour came, and the little bastard became more vocal, more daring. He sneered and snapped at anyone who looked at him funny. "Take a picture, ya drongo. It'll last longer." At some point he started to trip people with his peg leg, laughing like a maniac every time someone managed to fall into his trap. Literally. And they could do nothing but glare at him from their spot on the ground now that he had a new bodyguard. Roadhog sighed, slapping his forehead in complete utter exasperation, before threatening the other man to stop his antics. 

Strike two. 

When the third hour hit, the Junker began to get touchy, to the point of it being borderline affectionate. Roadhog wanted to punch the lights out of him. The man's twitchy hand kept reaching up to his face, trying to pull off the mask. Roadhog batted it away with a hard slap and an annoyed grunt. "Personal space." 

The Junker pouted, eyebrow's furrowed, "C'mon, Hoggie. I'm curious!" He reached up again, only to receive another slap. "Ow! Why'd you-? Fuckin' arsehole..." The hand began to turn red. But that didn't stop the Junker from coaxing Roadhog to take off the mask. 

"C'mon, 'Hog." 

"No." 

"Why not?!"

"Knock it off." 

When Roadhog wouldn't budge, the scrawny bastard prodded at his tattoo. Tracing the flames with shaky fingers, scratching the pig in the middle, poking his belly button while making obnoxious snorting noises... 

Roadhog's blood boiled, his breathing becoming heavier and angrier. He smacked the Junker's hand and pushed his chair away, adding as much distance between them as the table would allow. 

Strike three. 

It was approaching midnight now. The fourth hour. Karaoke Night usually lasted until the next morning, or at least until Kip had enough of the rowdier customers and started to kick people out. It was her inn after all, so her rules. Tonight was a full house, and it didn't seem like it was letting up anytime soon. Roadhog sighed. He wished Kip would come over to their table, yank the twitchy Junker by the ear, drag him out of the inn, and kick him to the curb. He's seen her do that to rude patrons before; a funny and terrifying sight indeed. But the little old lady was too busy bartending that she hardly noticed the Junker's drunken shenanigans. Or if she did, then she chose to do nothing about it, leaving Roadhog to deal with this mess of a man. 

"Pssst. 'Hog." 

"What?" He snapped. 

A devious smile was on the Junker's face, "There's no one on stage, mate," His words were slurred, and he jabbed his thumb towards the wooden platform at the front of the room. "Let's go up there and show these folks some real talent." 

Roadhog's eyes widened and he clenched his fists. No. No way. Absolutely fucking not. "No."

The Junker's face fell, "Aw, c'mon Hoggie. Why so serious?"

"I don't sing." 

"There's a first time for everything." 

"No," He repeated. 

The other man scoffed and crossed his arm, "You're no fun." 

Fun was the last thing on Roadhog's agenda. This was another job. This was business. This wasn't supposed to be _fun_. He sighed and rested his elbows on the table, massaging his temple, telling himself to not kill the man right then and there. 

When he looked up, the lanky bastard was already halfway to the stage.

Goddamn it. 

The Junker hobbled onto the wooden platform, his uneven gait even more unstable now that he was intoxicated, and grabbed the microphone stand. Everyone in the room turned to glare at him. "Attention! May I have your attention please?" He cleared his throat, "G'day ladies and gents! What a fine group we got here tonight."

Someone in the audience booed. The Junker laughed. His annoying string of giggles was amplified by the mic, "Wow, tough crowd." Half-lidded orange eyes scanned the sea of people until they landed on Roadhog. The Junker perked up, "I'd like to dedicate this next song to my buddy over there." He frantically waved to him before pointing, "To us, and our new partnership!"

 _Partnership_? No...that isn't what this was. This was business. Only business, and he was a fool to think otherwise. A damn fool.

The Junker waved at Kip, still smiling like an idiot while he tried to get her attention, "Oi, Gran! Got any Blue Swede in that selection of yours?" 

The little old lady cackled, "Sure do, Dearie!" 

_Kip don't encourage him._

She reached over to the karaoke set up, wrinkled fingers tapping against the screen, while a long list of musicians from the last century displayed against a faint blue light. It was a touchscreen device, not the holographic technology that has become the mainstream. Certainly one of the more impressive setups in the Outback bar scene, but still a primitive piece of machinery nonetheless. She scrolled through the selection until she found the band he asked for. "Got a song in mind?" 

_Kip no._

A grin stretched across the Junker's face, "Hooked on a Feeling." 

Roadhog went rigid. 

The little old lady let out another cackle, and before Roadhog could stop this madness she pressed down on the screen. The century-old song started up, booming through the speakers.

_"Ooga-chaka, ooga-ooga, ooga-chacka-"_

The chorus of peculiar chants filled the room and a collective groan swept across the audience. A classic song, released during much simpler times, and it was going to be tainted by the screeching of this idiot treasure hunter. 

The Junker swayed his hips to the beat, twirling the microphone cord in one hand, and opened his smiling mouth to sing:

 

_"I can't stop this feeling,_

_Deep inside of me,_

_Mate, you just don't realize,_

_What you do to me."_  

 

Oh my god. That's it. He was dead. Roadhog was going to kill him. 

 

_"When you hold me,_

_In your arms so tight,_

_You let me know,_

_Everything's alroight."_

 

Roadhog was fuming. Absolutely livid. What the hell was this guy doing? What in God's name was he trying to achieve? What the actual fuck? Roadhog shot up from his seat, fists slamming the table. People were whispering and giving him funny looks, ranging from disgust to amusement. Kip was laughing to her wrinkled heart's content, obviously enjoying the show.

He needed to stop this. 

 

_"Ahhh-aaah-ah I'm hooked on a-!"_

 

"JUNKRAT." 

Roadhog's outburst made the entire room shake, earning a startled gasp from the rest of the patrons. Kip jumped and stopped the music. Junkrat looked like a deer caught in headlights. The microphone was dropped and a horrible high-pitched howl sounded through the speakers; microphone feedback was truly the bane of Roadhog's existence. Junkrat smiled sheepishly and quickly hobbled off the stage, leaving his performance and a trail of smoke in his path.

The little shit was trying to leave the bar. 

He managed to reach the exit leading up to the ground floor. Freedom was only a flight of stairs away, until a large hand shot through the doorway and pulled him back by the throat. "Shite-!" It only took Roadhog’s thumb and index finger to fully wrap around his neck. Junkrat pounded on the fist, and he was lifted about a foot off the ground. They were face to face now, and Junkrat couldn't see that Roadhog was glaring daggers at him, "Fuckin' hell! Let me go--tubby bastard!" 

Roadhog squeezed his neck harder, "What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" 

The little shit had the nerve to _laugh_. "Ah-ahaha, y-you don't like m-my singing?" 

_"I should’ve left you on that rock to die."_

Junkrat’s eyes widened, and his lips were turning blue."'H-hog, let go, I-I can't-"

"Breathe?" Roadhog growled, "That's the point." 

Junkrat stopped squirming. His eyes were glazed over and he grabbed his stomach, "Gonna be sick-" 

Roadhog dropped him. The other man laid in a crumpled heap at the base of the stairs, wheezing and turning that familiar shade of green. "Don't vomit on the floor," Roadhog warned. If he did, Kip would probably make either of them clean it up, and Roadhog wasn't going to wipe this prick's barf off the stairs. The washrooms were merely five feet away from them. 

Junkrat groaned, taking deep, heaving breaths, "Can't make it in time, 'Hog." He gagged and bit his fist to keep himself from vomiting. "Shit-" 

Roadhog grunted, "Pathetic." 

_Idiot. Leaving himself vulnerable by getting drunk. It’s a damn miracle he’s still alive._

Despite his desire to snap Junkrat's neck, Roadhog found himself bursting through the doors of the men's bathroom, dragging the shorter man behind him. He pushed him inside the nearest empty stall. Junkrat stumbled and fell, hunched over the grimy toilet. Almost immediately, he spewed out all the contents in his stomach, straight into the porcelain bowl. It was mostly liquid and bile since the bastard managed to consume half of the inn's alcohol supply.

_Stupid, reckless, idiot._

Minutes passed until the vomiting subsided, soon replaced by hacking and shuddering breaths. Junkrat laid on the bathroom floor, pale, shaking, and leaning against the toilet. He was a complete goddamn mess. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at Roadhog, "Didn't know you knew my name, mate..." His voice was weak, barely a whisper.

In the same way that news of his treasure spread, the man's moniker also reached unfamiliar eager ears. When Roadhog took the job, the only information he was given was the name “Junkrat” and a brief description: blonde flaming hair, orange eyes, and a peg leg. The most distinct features of a man who was once a regular scavenger, and they led Roadhog straight to him.

"You're the most wanted man in the Outback. Of course I know your name." 

Junkrat laughed weakly, like it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard, "I'm so screwed." 

Well, he was right about that. Gangs, bounty hunters, hell even ordinary citizens wanted this guy’s head on a silver platter and the treasure in their possession. That’s probably why he hired Roadhog to be his bodyguard in the first place.

_Gangs, bounty hunters, everyone…_

Maybe the little shit really did need him. 

Roadhog took a deep breath. The urge to kill the Junker subsided. Roadhog was angry. Positively pissed off. Just about ready to break Junkrat's spine in half. But things have calmed down. Now Junkrat was off the stage and away from the public eye. Now people weren't giving Roadhog questionable glances and knowing smirks.

Now Junkrat was asleep on the bathroom floor, using the toilet as a pillow. 

_Unbelievable._

Now Roadhog was tired. Now he needed rest. Both of them did. No sense in driving back to Junkertown sleep-deprived. 

Roadhog sighed, scooping up the passed-out Junkrat, and carried him out of the stall. The smaller man didn't stir, barely moving or making a sound. Binge-drinking finally caught up to him. He was out cold.

When they came out of the bathroom, the entire basement bar was empty of people. The Karaoke set was turned off and put away. The patrons must have done something to truly piss off the Innkeeper while they were gone. She must have sent the guests back to their rooms and kicked everyone else out. Roadhog was immensely relieved.

Nobody was there to witness him cradling the most wanted man in the Outback in his arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is up my dudes. I'm out camping, currently bunkered down in a freezing tent doing homework AND updating this at six in the morning. The things I do for this fanfic, but I digress. Thanks so much for commenting and leaving kudos and just reading in general. I appreciate every single one of you, and I hope you have an awesome day!


	8. Tea Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat and Kip have some early morning tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so afraid,  
> Of what you have to say,  
> ‘Cause I am quiet now,  
> And silence gives you space.  
> -Fake You Out (Twenty One Pilots, 2013).

"This is supposed to help with the nausea."

A small ceramic tea cup appeared in front of Junkrat's face. He was resting his chin on the porch table, still recovering from last night's debacle, and eyed the drink suspiciously. It was steaming hot, the colour of watered-down soy sauce, and flat beige slices floated on the surface. "What's this?"

Kip smiled and nudged the cup closer to him, "Ginger tea. It's good for you."

The drink emitted a strong, sharp smell. Junkrat wrinkled his nose, staring at the old lady wearily, "You sure this'll work, Gran?"

"Positive," She tapped on his shoulder, "And straighten up your posture! You'll end up with a hunch if you keep slouching like that." She pointed to her own hunchback and winked, laughing as she went back inside to the kitchen, leaving just as suddenly as she appeared.

What a strange old woman. Couldn't judge though; he was pretty strange himself.

He glanced over the porch railing. In the distance Roadhog was working on his bike, inspecting it for any damages and doing some last minute repairs, tools sprawled out around him. Junkrat stared down at the cup and sighed, sitting up just a bit straighter, and blew across the surface of the tea to cool it down.

Roadhog was pissed. Junkrat had a pretty good idea why.

The big guy hadn't said a word to him since last night. Not so much as a "good morning" or "did you sleep well?" or "you're a damn fruit loop when you've had too much to drink." Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Junkrat would have preferred if the other man called him out on it. Even a punch to the face would have sufficed. But instead there was silence. Heavy, looming, unnerving silence.

Junkrat hated silence.

The heifer didn't speak much to begin with, but there was an aura of anger and irritability around him. Junkrat had no idea how to make amends.

Last night was a blur. Messy and unfocused. He didn't mean to drink so much booze in such a short amount of time. But the pressure of being in such a crowded place full of murderous Junkers got to him. He was tense, his hand was jittery, his bum limbs hurt again, and frankly, he was in a shitty mood. Once he had a couple of drinks though, his emotional state had improved, his confidence returned, and he finally had the nerve to tell the heifer his proposition. Sure, it wasn't the smoothest, most professional, or most business-like delivery, but the big guy had agreed to it, even if he was rambling like an idiot the entire time.

Fifty-fifty.

It was the most beneficial proposal for both of them. They'd split the goods fair and square, Junkrat gets a bodyguard, and Roadhog gets paid. Who could resist an offer like that? Nobody, that's who, and Junkrat knew that for sure. Especially not Roadhog, of all people. The man walked, talked, and breathed payment. He _should_ be happy that he's been promised half of the most sought out treasure in the goddamn Outback. Practically handed to him by the founder himself.

Instead, the big bastard was giving him the silent treatment.

Junkrat took a deep breath and carefully sipped the drink. It was spicy and much too hot still, and it burned his tongue and upper lip. He hissed and set the cup down, spilling some tea in the process.

He fucked up last night. He knew he did. Though he wasn't aware of all the details. One moment he was completely giddy over Roadhog's agreement, then the next moment he was holding a microphone and singing a romance song from the dinosaur ages or some shit, then the next moment he was being dragged into the bathroom by the man's iron grip. He tried to remember the night as a whole, but just thinking about it made his head hurt. If his damn mind fails him again then he could just ask Roadhog himself. But he doubted the big guy even wanted to see him, let alone talk to him, after the stunt he pulled in front of all those people.

Shit, he _really_ fucked up.

The back door creaked open and Junkrat was pulled from his thoughts. Kip waddled towards the table with a tray of tea in her hands, two cups of the same stuff she'd given him earlier, and set it down across from him. She hoisted herself up onto the extra seat, her feet dangling off the edge of the chair. "Heard about your little deal last night, Dearie."

Junkrat stared at her, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?" He grabbed his cup, satisfied that it's cooled down, and gulped down a quarter of the tea. It was spicy even at room temperature. He scowled, not sure if he liked the taste, but he continued to drink since he didn't want to offend the little old lady.

Kip nodded, "Yup," she grabbed the nearest cup and took a sip. "Also heard you call 'Hog your _partner_."

His eyes widened and he set the cup down, hacking up the ginger slice that managed to get lodged in his esophagus. He spit the ginger into his cup and coughed profusely. "Shit-"

"Woah, you okay there?"

He cleared his throat once the fit subsided, "Yeah, yeah, I'm good. But did...did I say that?"

She nodded, "Yup. Right before you started singing."

Shit. Goddamn it. Fuck.

"Oi, I didn't--I meant to say-" Business partners, right? He meant business partners, damn it! "I mean-"

"Relax, Dearie. I'm just messing with you," she chuckled and took another sip, "To be more precise, you said ' _To us, and our new partnership_!"

Oh...well, he vaguely remembered saying that. His drunken self must have been really, really excited over their agreement. _Too_ excited, it seemed. Junkrat sighed, "Geez, Gran. Scared the crap outta me."

"You're twitchier than usual." She smiled and pointed a wrinkled finger at Roadhog, "Trouble in paradise?"

He scoffed, "Quit teasing me."

Kip let out a hearty cackle, noticing his flustered state, "Alright, alright, sorry," she took another sip from the piping hot drink, "Don't mind him too much. He's just embarrassed about last night, that's all."

Junkrat frowned, " _He's_ embarrassed?  _I'm_ the one who made an arse of himself in front of half the damn town!" He snapped his neck towards Roadhog's direction and glared at the back of his head. The nerve of that guy!

"True," she smirked, "But you did try to serenade him on stage. Not exactly good for his tough guy image."

Junkrat growled and ran a hand through his hair in frustration, "It was the alcohol talking!"

"Sure it was."

" _It was_!"

The little old lady laughed so hard she almost spilled her tea. Junkrat scowled and averted his gaze, staring at his own cup. Her laughing eventually trailed off into a quiet giggle. "Go talk to him, Dearie."

He looked up, "No, no, no, that ain't happening. If you haven't already noticed, 'Hog hates my guts after the shit I pulled last night."

Kip's face softened and she shook her head, "Aw, that's not true."

"It is," he insisted.

"No, no, he doesn't hate you," she paused, eyebrows furrowed, "I mean, sure he's a cold-blooded killer and not fond of social interaction, but he doesn't hate you. He's probably really pissed about last night, but he'll get over it."

"How long until he stops giving me the cold shoulder?"

She shrugged, "Don't know. But there's one thing I know for sure. 'Hog is a professional, and professionals can't hold grudges against their employers," she took another sip, "Not forever, at least."

Junkrat tapped the table absentmindedly. Forever was an awfully long time. "It's just...I don't get the guy, you know? One minute he's defending me from crooks, then the next minute he doesn't wanna be in the same room as me," he took a deep breath, shoulders slumped.

Maybe the deal was a mistake.

Kip gave him a gentle smile, "Aw, Dearie, if it makes you feel any better, you've actually started to grow on him."

He perked up, "Really?"

"Well...he hasn't killed you yet," she offered.

That's true, albeit slightly reassuring.

She tipped the cup into her mouth, finishing the last drop of her drink before setting it down. "He's just...used to working by himself. He's a real lone wolf. Always has been."

Junkrat huffed, "Well, that's an issue, ain't it? Considering that I'm paying him to stand next to me twenty-four seven."

She chuckled, "Talk to him. Maybe you can change his old habits."

"Gran, that won't work."

"C'mon, get on his good side!"

"But-I...how?"

Kip pointed at the untouched cup of tea, the third of its kind, and winked, "Give him this. He likes his ginger tea warm."

Junkrat stared at her, then at the tea, then at Roadhog, then back at her. "He's gonna smash the cup over my head."

"Talk to him," she repeated.

"Gran no-"

Before Junkrat could even blink, she had jumped off her chair and was now at his side of the table, pulling his arm like a mother pulling her child across the street. Junkrat yelped. Despite her age, Kip could move like lightning, "C'mon, Dearie. I want you boys to leave my inn on a good note."

He groaned and gently shook her off from him, "Cripes' sake! I'll do it, I'll do it, geez!" He slid out of his seat and stood up, now towering over the old woman, and grabbed the cup from the tray. He peered down at her, "If he goes aggro on me, I'm not gonna say I told you so."

"Go on," she waved him off. "I'll pull him off you if he decides to throw a punch."

Junkrat was seriously questioning the lady's ability to do so. She was barely five feet tall, wrinkled and stout, hardly any match for the mountain of a man. The look she gave him was that of complete assurance, however. He gulped, giving Kip a pleading look before she waved him off again. After taking a deep breath, he took a couple of steps down the rickety old stairs and onto the rock path, which led to Roadhog and his bike.

Junkrat could see the other man briefly tense up at the sound of approaching mismatched footsteps. Roadhog barely turned his head, glancing over his shoulder before returning back to work, tinkering with some obscure piece of metal from the bike's engine.

_C'mon Fawkes, you can do this._

Five more steps and he was right behind him. Even while sitting down on the car park's asphalt, Roadhog still matched his height, although that was probably due to his own hunched posture. Junkrat was about to open his mouth to speak, until he was startled by a loud crash coming from inside the inn. In the distance, Kip swore and grabbed her shotgun from under the table. She noticed his gaze and gave him an apologetic smile, mouthing 'I'll be right back,' before angrily marching back inside. Junkrat was glad he managed to repress his own destructive urges, otherwise he'd come face to face with the barrel of Kip's gun for sure. The door slammed shut behind her.

Crap. He was on his own.

Junkrat cleared his throat, still holding the tea cup in his trembling hand. "Um...uh...'H-hog?"

No response.

He pressed on, shuffling to Roadhog's side, and tentatively held out the cup to him. "Gran wanted me to give you this." He tried to not flinch when a huge hand shot out towards him and gently tugged the tea out of his grip. He breathed a sigh of relief, while Roadhog set the cup down on top of his tool box. Junkrat stood there, hand shoved into his pocket, and waited for some form of acknowledgement. And waited...and waited...and waited. Every second of passing silence felt like an eternity.

Roadhog didn't even look at him.

Junkrat made a frustrated sound, stomping over to the other side of the chopper and directly in Roadhog's field of vision. The big bastard had his attention on the engine and didn't even look up.

_Fuckin' jerk._

Junkrat waved his hand in front of Roadhog's face. Nothing.

Junkrat waved his stump in front of Roadhog's face. Still nothing.

Junkrat climbed onto the seat of the bike, nearly kicking Roadhog in the face when he swung his leg over, and the big guy let out a grunt. _Finally_ , Junkrat thought, _now we're getting somewhere._

A large hand wrapped around his torso and lifted him off the bike.

"What the-?! Put me down!" He clawed at the hand and tried to kick Roadhog in the face, but he was being held at an arms length. "Seriously 'Hog put me down-ack!" Without warning, the heifer tossed him aside like a rag doll, and he landed face down on the ground a few feet away. The impact sent sand particles flying. Junkrat coughed, his eyes stung, and he was pretty sure he swallowed a rock. He rolled over and rested on all fours, glaring at Roadhog. The bastard was still messing around with the engine. He still hadn't touched his tea.

Now Junkrat was pissed too, but he wasn't giving up. He decided to give the guy some space. A few hours would do. Maybe he'd cool down by then. He hoped.

Letting out a deep sigh, he turned away from Roadhog, sitting back on his arse and bringing his knees to his chest. He sat there, staring at the sunrise. The big yellow explosion in the sky was beginning to peek out from the horizon. After a few minutes he glanced behind him one more time, only to find Kip and Roadhog conversing, and the little old lady holding out a map.

Junkrat frowned and turned away. He replayed bits and pieces of the conversation he had with Kip, the parts that he managed to remember, and sincerely hoped she was right.

'Hog was a professional...

...and professionals couldn't stay mad forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original title of this chapter was "A Cuppa with Grandma." I'm lame, I know.


	9. To Be at a Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Outback is home, but they must go.

The map of Australia placed across the seat of the motorcycle was crumpled, tearing at the edges, withered with time. It displayed most of the Junker settlements in the Outback, marked down as circles using paints of various colours. Lines littered the space between them, indicating the winding roads and paths that stretched across the vast wasteland. Roadhog noticed a few circles near the edges of the Outback's boundaries. He didn't remember those from his last visit. "New settlements," he mumbled.

Kip nodded and smiled.

Over the course of twenty agonizing years, the region as a whole was getting its shit together. The Outback citizens were exploring, expanding, and, most importantly, establishing. Sure, they still lived in a lawless, cutthroat, and deeply flawed society. Extremely flawed, volatile, and plagued by radiation. But they were making progress, rebuilding, taking back the land (or at least what's left of it), and that's all that mattered. It would take lifetimes to restore the Outback and its inhabitants to their former glory, but for now this was good enough.

Roadhog coughed. His mind was getting too nostalgic, too hopeful, for his liking. _Snap out of it._

The yellowing paper crinkled under the old woman's touch. "Yeah, found out about them in the usual ways." She pointed at a brown circle near the upper left corner, "Heard about this one from a guest the other day. A traveller. Said that it's gonna be a mining town. Located near an abandoned mine and rock formations and all that," she pointed to a grey circle at the lower right corner, "This one's from last night. Heard it from one of the local alcoholics before I let him have a drink. Apparently, a crowd of Junkers discovered a whole battlefield of dead Bastion units and other robot scrap heaps. Mountains of them! Decided to stay put and build another scrapping town," her finger trailed off towards another circle before Roadhog piped up.

"Any of these been named yet?" he asked.

She paused, looking up at him, before she rolled the paper up, "Some have. Others are still in the back burner. Guess I can't really find out for sure, though."

Roadhog tilted his head. That last part was unlike her. Kip was vigilant when it came to the map. Extremely vigilant. Never left a town unmarked, let alone unnamed. With the connections that she had, she was bound to find out eventually, right?

The old woman seemed to read his mind. "Can't exactly write it down if I don't have it," she held out the map to him, "Here."

He stared at her, "Kip, I can't have this." He couldn't. The map was her pride and joy. For years he's visited this place, and for years Kip has gone out of her way to mark down every town. He couldn't just accept it.

But she was persistent. Of course, Roadhog knew better than to question her. If Kip's mind was set on something, then there was no telling her otherwise. Prying his hand open, she placed the map in his palm and curled his fingers over the roll. "It's yours," she insisted, "You'd probably have more use for it than I would."

Roadhog shook his head, She loved this thing. Always kept him updated on it. "Can't just give it away."

"Give it away? No, Sonny, I'm not giving it away," she patted his hand, "Consider it a farewell present."

_ Farewell? _

Now he was genuinely confused. "Kip, I'll probably be back in a few weeks." Maybe in a month or two. But...He'd be back. Right? He always visited the inn when his job routes allowed for it. He knew that. She knew that.

So why the sentiment? Why was she acting like this is the last time they were going to see each other?

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. What job routes? As a matter of fact, what _job_? Technically, he wasn't holding the sole title of the infamous Enforcer anymore, now a bodyguard to some rookie from the Capital, and eventually the whole Outback would know that. He took a deep breath.

Goddamn it.

The old woman's smile faded, contorting into a frown, eyebrows knitted together and mouth set in a thin line. She beckoned for him to lean down so they could be at eye level. "Listen carefully, Mako."

He shifted uncomfortably on the asphalt, not liking the serious tone in her voice, "Alright."

Kip motioned towards the treasure hunter sitting in the sand a few feet away, "You agreed to be his bodyguard last night, correct?"

He huffed and rubbed his temples, "Unfortunately."

She folded her arms, "Well, word spreads fast. This whole town found out about your little deal in the course of one night. Soon, the whole damn Outback's gonna know about it. I'd give it a few weeks. Maybe a month if you're lucky."

Roadhog nodded, already fully aware of the dangers and reprocutions that came with guarding Junkrat. The treasure hunter had already been captured and mutilated by one of the less notorious gangs in the wasteland, and more were sure to come after him. Bigger and badder ones. Roadhog could easily take them down, break their bones, rip them apart. Other Junkers definitely weren't a cause of concern for him. He'd shed plenty of their blood over the course of his career through various brutal methods. He could deal with whatever and whoever the wasteland throws at him. He could handle himself.

Junkrat on the other hand, he wasn't so sure.

Once again, it seemed like the old woman could read his mind. "You're probably not that surprised, Sonny. You of all people can handle this type of thing. Can't help but be a little protective, though." Kip patted his hand again, staring at the rising sun, " _Mokopuna_ ," she murmured, more to herself it seemed.

Grandchild.

"You're not invincible, Mako. Remember that."

Roadhog sighed and placed his other hand on top of Kip's, gently gripping her tanned, wrinkled fingers. The old woman was unfazed at the gesture. "What do you suppose we do then?" He had a feeling he already knew the answer.

"You already know," her mind-reading skills were impeccable, "And if Junkrat knows what's good for him, then you both have the same idea."

"It'll take weeks on my bike," he pointed out, "to reach the nearest port." Not to mention ferry tickets were expensive.

"You've already got the costs covered," she retorted, "Once you collect your pay for two jobs well done, then you're all set."

She was right. Money was no problem. It was never a problem. The problem was travelling across the country with Junkrat as his only company. The idea didn't sit well with him. Not at all.

He was starting to question if this secret from the Omnium was even _worth_ it; if the treasure hunter's life was even _worth_ protecting.

The old woman nudged him, "You're not having second thoughts about this, are you?"

Roadhog shifted on the asphalt again, sneaking a glance at the other man, He was reckless. Irritating. Wouldn't shut up for more than ten minutes. Roadhog wasn't exactly thrilled. The old woman gave him a stern look while he mulled the situation over. "Guess the money's worth it," he shrugged.

She chuckled and shook her head, "Most Junkers would kill to be in your position right now. Literally. Think about it."

Roadhog _had_ been thinking about it. More than he would like to admit.

He'd been promised half of the most sought out treasure in the goddamn Outback. Practically handed to him by the founder himself. If he hadn't (accidentally) tracked down Junkrat first, then he was sure the little shit would have eventually found and hired him in one way or another. It seemed like Roadhog was the ideal candidate for a bodyguard. Obviously due to his reputation, notoriety, stature similar to that of a brick wall, and ability to kill a man in numerous ways. 

Regardless, the promise of riches drew him to Junkrat in the first place, and is a major reason as to why he grudgingly agreed to this new gig. He let out a deep breath.

"Thinking about it, Sonny?"

"Unfortunately."

Kip laughed, "Good."

A comfortable silence fell between them as they watched the sunrise. The weather was surprisingly pleasant today. No smog clouds or sandstorms to ruin the view. Junkrat was still sitting a few feet away with his back turned to them, and seemed to be drawing something in the sand with his fingers.

Kip cleared her throat, "Sooo...did you boys talk it out?"

Roadhog blinked, "No."

"What? But I sent him over here and everything!"

He pointed at the finished cup of ginger tea on his toolbox. Definitely no talking was done, and she knew that.

"How'd he end up sulking in the sand then?"

"Uh," it was probably for the best if he didn't tell her, "Beats me."

"Mako," she sighed, "He feels really bad about last night."

Roadhog snorted derisively, "I know. I heard the whole conversation."

"So go talk to him!"

The fiasco of Karaoke Night was fresh in his mind, and he was still silently seething about Junkrat's stupid stunt. Roadhog assumed that if he _did_ talk to the other man, his anger would get the best of him, and it wouldn't end well. "Kip, no."

"Mako yes," She grabbed his wrist and, bless her heart, tried to pull him up with all her strength. "He's your employer! You can't just ignore him. This is very unprofessional of you, young man!"

Roadhog grumbled. He wanted to remind Kip that he was indeed not a young man, being at the ripe old age of forty-eight. The old woman had good intentions, but her attempts at reconciling them annoyed him a little, although he tried not to show it. She was relentless, still tugging on his arm in a feeble attempt to move him.

He didn't want to admit it, but she had a point.

This newfound "partnership" (as Junkrat called it the night before) wasn't going to work if there was no communication between them. If Roadhog continued to distance himself, then Junkrat would eventually grow tired of it and leave. Maybe find a new bodyguard. Or get captured in the process. Then he'd get tortured and/or interrogated. Blood would be spilled. Eventually, he'd be killed once the information was pried out of him...

Roadhog sighed again, rolled his shoulders back, and stood up. Kip stared up at him, hands on her hips. He nodded, "Alright. I'll go."

She grinned and clasped her hands together before waving him off, "Good, good. Now hurry! The sooner you two resolve this, the sooner you can get out of here." A loud crash sounded from the inn again, and the old woman's smile disappeared, "I'll be back." And just like that, she grabbed her gun and stomped back inside, leaving the two men alone. Again.

Great.

He trudged his way over to the treasure hunter. Junkrat didn't seem to notice his looming presence and was instead fixated on the scribbles in the surrounding area. Roadhog glanced over the other man's shoulder to take a better look, standing right behind him.

"Gran's Inn", "Junkertown", and "Sydney" were all written in the sand, connected by dotted lines. The three places were labeled Step 1, Step 2, and Step 3 respectively. Little notes and doodles were scrawled underneath the large letters. Roadhog squinted to read them.

_ Gran's Inn: _

_ -get supplies _

_ -fuel up the bike _

_ -hug the old lady and tell her goodbye _

Roadhog's chest hurt a little upon reading that last part.

_ Junkertown: _

_ -"turn myself in", heh _

_ -collect the payment _

_ -get more supplies _

_ -leave and never look back _

Roadhog thought that last point was a bit melodramatic. His eyes darted to read the notes under the third step.

_ Sydney: _

_ -??? _

Other than the question marks, the space underneath was empty. The question came out before he could give it a second thought, "What's happening in Sydney?"

Junkrat froze and let out a shriek.  He scrambled to the side, smudging some of the notes with his knees, a wild look in his eyes when their gazes met. "Cripes sake - scared the shite outta me!" He breathed heavily.

Roadhog held his hands out, slightly stunned that Junkrat didn't notice him earlier, "Relax. Just wondering."

Once Junkrat calmed down, the look of fear on his face was replaced by disdain. "What? Come to toss me like a javelin again?" He scooted back to his spot in the sand and began tracing over the ruined words. "Let out some steam, yeah? Go ahead, mate," he said, daring the bodyguard to do so.

Terribly tempting. But that's not why he came over here. Roadhog took a deep breath and plopped down beside the smaller Junker, forming a cloud of dust and sand upon impact. Junkrat coughed and waved his hand through the air. Roadhog was unaffected, shifting in the sand to make himself more comfortable.

God this was awkward.

Roadhog cleared his throat and watched the man write, "Why?"

"Eh?"

He gestured towards the words, "You want paper?" It's a more portable substitution, after all.

Junkrat grabbed a fistful of sand, still scowling, "Nah, no need, just gotta write ideas down. Gets all muddled up in my head, you know?" His frown deepened and he tossed the sand aside, "Not that it matters to you."

It didn't, but Roadhog nodded.

The heat that came with the early morning sun wasn't helping the situation, or the heavy air settling around them. This was awkward. For Roadhog. For Junkrat. For both of them. Neither of them said anything for awhile. Neither of them could even look at each other. Junkrat continued to scrawl his inner thoughts into the sand. Roadhog watched twitchy fingers carve the red earth. He sighed. 

This was ridiculous.

Two grown-ass men acting like the beginnings of a teenage relationship gone sour.

Stupid.

Foolish.

A waste of time.

Completely and utterly ridiculous.

Just talk, God damn it, just say _something_.

"Sorry," they said in unison, piercing through the previous unnerving silence. They looked up, staring at each other, wide-eyed and thick lenses glinting.

Junkrat was the first to break the gaze. He rubbed his neck and smiled nervously, "Seriously, 'Hog, I mean it. I messed up. Made an arse of myself and brought you down with me," the words poured out of him like a faucet, "Let's forget about yesterday, okay? Didn't mean anything by it, mate. Was just nervous and all. Just the alcohol talking. Really and truly."

Roadhog nodded in agreement, anger and embarrassment leaving his nerves, replaced by a strange sense of relief.

Long, slender fingers twitched and skittered across the sand in a nervous tick, "Look, I get it if you wanna back out of this...business agreement? Business agreement," he decided, "I know I'm a pain, and I wasn't exactly sober when I hired you. Not very professional of me."

"Not drunk now," Roadhog pointed out.

Junkrat snapped his fingers, "Roight."

Roadhog waited. The other man didn't seem to get the message, "Well."

"What?"

"What's your proposition?"

"Oh! Oh..." Junkrat stared at him with narrowed eyes, "Don't gotta repeat myself, 'Hog. Fifty-fifty. Fair and square. That's all I'm gonna say. But if you're really not backing out then I gotta warn you, this gig won't be easy."

Roadhog shrugged, "Didn't expect it to be." If their future escapades are anything like the past three days, then an easy job is the last thing on Roadhog's list of concerns. Not to mention that their time spent cooped up together would be all for nothing if he just walked away from Junkrat and the treasure.

Besides, Roadhog didn't back out of anything.

"What's that?" Junkrat asked, pointing at the paper in his grip.

"Map," he said, unrolling and laying it out in front of them. "It was Kip's," he waved a hand over it, "Junker settlements." Remembering that Junkrat still didn't know which town they were in, he pointed at a large red circle indicating their location, "We're here."

"Scraptown? Hmmmmm, you'd think they'd come up with better names for these places, eh 'Hog?" Junkrat let out a low whistle, "Hooley dooley. We've really expanded!" Orange eyes quickly scanned the paper until they found what they were looking for, and Junkrat pointed at bold black letters. "There! Sydney! That's where we're headed."

Roadhog raised an eyebrow. For all he knew, Australia's coastal region wasn't affected by the disaster twenty years ago. The coast was clean, pristine, and everything else the Outback wasn't. It made him sick. "What's so good about Sydney?"

A large grin stretched across Junkrat's face, "Sydney equals coastal city. Coastal city equals city wankers. City wankers equals Suits," he shot up from his seat and spread out his arms, "And Suits equal money! Big cash, 'Hog! We're better off trading the damn prize with some civilized bastard than with anyone out here in the wasteland." Roadhog stared. Junkrat lowered his jazz hands at the lack of a response. "What? Bad plan? Got something better in mind? I don't see you contributing any-"

"They're not like us, 'Rat," Roadhog said slowly, "They don't welcome people like us."

Junkrat tilted his head, " _We're_ people, _they're_ people, living in the same bloody continent _._  Sure we're a little rough around the edges... but who can resist an offer as big as _this_?" 

Roadhog just shook his head, not wanting to delve deeper into the touchy, temper-inducing topic. They had to leave the Outback for safer pastures. They both knew that. If the treasure hunter was so sure about Sydney, then that's where they would go. But Roadhog couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in his gut, the bitterness in his mouth, or the resentment buried deep in his heart. 

"You'll see."


	10. Poor Man's Grenade (Farewell Scraptown)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scraptown citizens know about the deal, and some decide to take action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people! I hope you're having a fine day today.  
> Bad news: People die in this chapter. So blood and gore warning, nothing too descriptive but yeah, just in case.  
> Good news: The boys finally leave Scraptown! (After 7 whopping chapters wow smh @ myself)

Loud gunshots and distant shouting disturbed the relative quiet of the early morning scene. Must have been a street fight, they both thought.

Nothing new.

It was a common occurrence out here in the wastes, especially in towns like this one. Settlements provided water, food, shelter, and a skewed sense of community; the basic necessities of every Junker. However, once those physiological needs are fulfilled, a person no longer has to brave the land in order to survive, and so often turn to other forms of entertainment. Instead of fighting against the elements and trials of the harsh desert, people begin fighting among themselves.

A destructive pass time, really. Quite pointless. But it was the way of life.

So when Junkrat and Roadhog first heard the commotion, they didn't think twice about it. Probably just some local gangs getting into a scuffle. No surprise there. Better to just stay away and not go looking for an unnecessary fight.  

Only when they heard glass breaking, wood splitting, and the little old woman's cackling did Roadhog tense up. Before Junkrat could ask him why he was so hesitant about going to Sydney, the larger man was already halfway across the parking lot.

"Uh, 'Hog-?"

"Hurry up," He growled, tossing the map into his toolbox before grabbing his scrap gun and running up the porch stairs.

Junkrat hobbled after him, kicking aside his etchings in the sand. He was unarmed. No bombs, no mines, no knife, no nothing. Those scrap-metal-wearing bastards took all of his shit when they knocked him out, and he doubted 'Hog bothered to pick them up before bringing him to Scraptown. Oh well, he only had two bombs left anyway.

Nonetheless, it was never a good idea to show up to a gun fight with just your fists. Or fist, in Junkrat's case. An even worse predicament in his opinion. 

He considered grabbing one of 'Hog's unusually large tools, maybe the hammer or monkey wrench, and just smacking the inn's attackers with it. It was a good plan, until Junkrat remembered that he was absolute crap at effective close combat. Hence why he needed the range and defence that his bombs and traps provided whenever he was caught up in a brawl. His supply of weapons were non-existent at the moment, and Junkrat let out a frustrated noise. Based on past experiences, especially after losing a fucking arm, nothing good ever came out of anything if he had little to no bombs at his disposal.

"Rat, c'mon," Roadhog was stomping his way down the steps, and his white-knuckled grip on that huge yellow gun was not helping Junkrat's decision making.

"I can't just show up empty-handed, pig face!" he snarled, grabbing the nearest tool. The monkey wrench. "This'll have to do."

"The hell are you gonna do with that?"

Junkrat shrugged and hobbled towards the porch, his gait even more uneven due to the added weight in his one hand, "Bust open a couple heads with it? Use it to deflect bullets? I don't fuckin' know. I'm shite at this melee crap. But the possibilities are endless!"

"Just _hurry_ , Junkrat." Agitation was clear in Roadhog's voice. It would be a lie to say that he wasn't worried. He needed to know what was wrong. Every second spent arguing with his employer was another second wasted. He ignored Junkrat's string of insults and instead focused on Kip's muffled laughter coming from the other side of the wooden walls. It was comforting to know that she was still alive, at least. Once the smaller man set foot on the rickety old steps, Roadhog grabbed his arm and pulled him through the back door.

Darting through the building's interior, the pair stuck their heads in every significant room. The kitchen was clear. The dining hall was clear. The rec room was clear. Not bothering with the guest rooms, they pressed forward. Kip wouldn't be in them anyway. Gunshots echoed through the inn's empty corridors, accompanied by the thud of heavy steel-toed boots and the periodic tapping of a peg leg.

As they neared the lobby and were about to turn the corner, a round of bullets ricocheted off the wall, causing splintered wood and broken glass to go flying. Junkrat squeezed his eyes shut and shielded himself with his stump to avoid the shrapnel. Roadhog advanced, glad to be behind the safety of the gas mask. He glared at the damage done to the family photos, now laying face first on the ground at his feet. Despite the urgency of the situation, he couldn't help but pick one up.

In between his thumb and index finger was the cracked frame of Kip's old wedding photo. The little old lady must have been about forty years younger, still flashing that same toothy smile, wearing a simple white dress and veil. Next to her was a slightly taller man with a neat haircut, clean-shaven grinning face, wearing a white dress shirt and dark pants. The bullet that shattered the frame's glass put a hole in the middle of the groom’s chest.

A sickening coincidence.

Roadhog growled and quickly pocketed the pictures for safekeeping. He nudged Junkrat back, who had been peeking over 'Hog's side to look at the photos. "Stay behind me."

A nod and a manic grin was his response. Junkrat hefted the monkey wrench, resting it on his shoulder, and shot Roadhog a wide smile, "Lead the way, mate."

Finally turning the corner, the two men were met by gunfire almost immediately. Bullets whizzed past them and Roadhog ducked behind the wall again, keeping a grip on Junkrat's arm to keep him from running into the attacker's line of vision.

"We found the pig, old hag." sneered a familiar, more sober voice. A series of whoops and hollers echoed through the lobby before the man spoke again. "Bet you the rat is close by!"

Junkrat snarled, remembering where he heard that voice before. He poked Roadhog in the stomach with his stump, "It's that fucker from last night," he hissed, "The one that tried to pick a fight with me!"

"I heard that, you twiggy piece of shit!" Another round of bullets were shot towards the same spot, adorning the walls and doors with even more smouldering holes. If anyone was occupying those guest rooms, then they surely must be dead by now. Junkrat squinted, and through a hole he could just make out two figures sitting on dusty old recliners, bodies littered with bullet wounds, flesh torn off, and mouths opened in a silent scream.

Well, shit.

Roadhog pushed Junkrat against the wall beside him, grunting as a bullet grazed the snout of his mask. He felt something cold and metallic prodding his stomach and swatted it away. The monkey wrench. "Knock it off."

"Where does Gran keep the booze?"

 _Unbelievable_.

"Are you serious?" Roadhog said in a harsh whisper, his grip on 'Rat's arm tightening. If the little prick wanted to drink then fine, but this was _not_ the appropriate time.

Junkrat shook his head, "I ain't planning on getting drunk, ya heifer!"

"Then what-?"

"Just _trust_ me!"

Roadhog blinked. Something about the seriousness in Junkrat's face and tone convinced him. "Basement, behind the counter," he pointed towards the other side of the lobby, right at the stairs leading down to the cellar-turned-bar. 'Rat would have to cross no man's land if he truly wanted access to the inn's assortment of beer, wine, and distilled beverages.

"Is there petrol and alcohol down there too?" He asked.

Roadhog nodded, "Storage closet by the bottom of the stairs."

A low giggle erupted from Junkrat as he broke free from the grip and adjusted to a runner's stance. He gave 'Hog a thumbs up, "Cover me."

Before Roadhog could stop him, a shrill battle cry shook the room and the treasure hunter sprinted across the combat zone. He was clumsy but surprisingly fast on his feet, even with the monkey wrench in tow, just barely avoiding the gunfire. The bodyguard wanted to hook him and pull him back to safety, but 'Rat was already halfway across the lobby, determined.

"The rat's making a break for it! Shoot him in his good leg!"

Oh no they don't. No one's laying a finger on the little shit. Not until he gets paid. Roadhog loaded his weapon with wood, glass, and stray bullets, turned the corner, and fired at will.

The scrap gun sent bursts of ammunition across the room, hitting some of its intended targets and causing others to take cover behind their makeshift barriers. The lucky ones managed to hide behind overturned tables, couches, and behind the open doorway. Attackers that couldn't act fast enough dropped dead as their faces were pierced and ripped apart by the shrapnel. Roadhog let out a deep, booming laugh as he fired another round and covered the surrounding area in a semi-circle. The rush, the feeling of his gun's recoil, the pained noises of the injured as he spilled their blood and organs...

He loved it. He loved it all. The thrill of the kill.

Making his advance, he noticed a shrivelled hand waving at him from behind the front desk. The little old lady laid flat across the carpet, shotgun beside her. "Thank goodness you two showed up! Couldn't hold them off for much longer."

"You okay?" Roadhog asked over the sound of gunfire, not taking his eyes off the barriers.

"Gun's out of ammo. Got nicked in the shoulder. Nothing too bad though," the little old lady gave him an approving smile and a thumbs up, "Go get 'em, Sonny!"

Roadhog grunted, nodding politely, "Leave it to me." He continued firing until the scrap gun needed to be reloaded. He grumbled in annoyance and dove behind the front desk, ducking as another round of shots passed them overhead. He and Kip swept up as much ammunition as they could, loaded the gun, and rested the barrel on the counter, ready to shoot.

Something sailed over them, gleaming in the light that flooded through the inn's broken windows. A bottle. Molotov cocktail, to be exact.

_Clever little shit._

Suddenly, the whole lobby was lit up by an array of yellow, orange, and red; the smell of gasoline and smoke filtered through 'Hog's mask. Roadhog hadn't even pulled the trigger yet when an agonized wail came from the other side and interrupted the shootout. He peeked over the side of the desk, watching one of the attackers run out of the inn, screaming bloody murder as flames engulfed them. More bottles flew from above, shattering against the furniture barriers, setting everything and everyone it touched on fire. Those unfortunate enough to be struck by the makeshift bombs scrambled out of the inn and attempted to put themselves out by rolling across the sand. Stop, drop, and roll indeed. The rest of the attackers held their ground, their confidence snuffed as their numbers dwindled. Roadhog took the opportunity to start firing.

A familiar ear-splitting laugh filled the room as the chaos unfolded. 'Hog briefly turned around to face the source, only to be met by 'Rat's shit-eating grin. The treasure hunter sat near the top of the stairs, protected by a wall's corner, and shot him a smug wink. There was a fire in his eyes as he observed the scene, another bottle in his grasp.

 _Unbelievable_ , Roadhog thought. But in a good way.

Junkrat was absolutely ecstatic, "Let's finish them off, Roadie!"

Maybe it was the heat of the battle, or their shared passion of killing and destruction, or perhaps even that stupid nickname, but Roadhog couldn't help the smile hidden behind the mask. "With pleasure."

Their joined battle cry was the only warning the attackers got. Continuous blasts of shrapnel shot across the room with the occasional bursts of flames. The remaining gunmen tried to retreat, knowing full well that their situation was hopeless with this rag tag pair of Junkers teaming up on them. Anyone who tried to run was shot down or set on fire almost immediately. Soon there was one attacker left, and he was holding his hands up, surrendering.

Roadhog could see over the makeshift barrier. Huh, Junkrat was right. It _was_ the same man. The beer-tosser from the night before.

Approaching the table that the attacker was cowering behind, 'Hog took the liberty of lifting and smashing it over the man's head, earning himself a pained scream and the satisfying crunch of his skull. With a flick of the wrist, he hooked the man's gun and yanked it out of his hand before snagging him around his neck, pulling him up so they could be face to face.

Pathetic. The man merely whimpered in Roadhog's presence, "This place," he gestured at the destruction, "This place is a town staple. Didn't...didn't want to destroy it. Had no choice-"

Roadhog wrenched him up higher, enjoying the choked noises that the moron in front of him made. "Look around," he rumbled, anger clear in his instruction.

The once rustic lobby sat in ruins. Bullet holes riddled the walls, windows, and furniture. Behind him, Kip and Junkrat worked to extinguish the fires. She smothered the flames with her shawl, and the treasure hunter stomped them down with his boot while rambling apologies to the old woman over and over and over again.

"Would've ended sooner if you just handed the rat over!" the man barked, spitting out blood and some teeth, "Never expected the great notorious Roadhog to work for some piece of Junkertown trash-ack!"

“ _Who_ I work for is _none_ of your business.” The hook was raised until the man was no longer touching the ground. They were nose to snout when Roadhog placed the barrel of his gun under the man's chin. "We're done talking." The trigger was pulled, swift and easy. A loud bang reverberated through the ruins. Bits of flesh and brain matter splattered across the walls, adding to the carnage. ‘Hog tossed the headless carcass aside. He stood there, counting the visible bodies, until he felt a stump prod his arm.

"Uh, good work mate." Junkrat tentatively patted his shoulder, awkwardly smiling at him.

Roadhog grunted, wiping his hands and hook with a rag, "You too."

Outside, corpses littered the inn's front yard. Those who weren't dead yet merely groaned as their injured and/or burnt bodies were slowly cooked by the scorching Outback sun. The streets were empty. The windows were shut. The air was still. Scraptown's inhabitants were most likely opting to stay indoors, not wanting to get involved.

Typical.

It took them a few hours to sweep up the mess in the lobby. Kip insisted that they leave the bodies alone, telling them that the town coroner and his men would eventually come by to investigate the scene once the smell of rotting flesh got _really_ bad. Despite the pair's protests, the little old lady ushered them outside to the back porch, urging them to start heading out before noon.

"Gran-shit-sorry this happened. This is my fault. They were after me and you got caught up in it. I'm sorry-" Junkrat still hadn't stopped apologizing. He was a twitching mess, more so than usual. 

"Dearie please," she wrapped a hand around his and squeezed it gently, "Don't beat yourself up. They were the ones who started it anyway. Can't control the actions of other people, unfortunately. It's really not your fault."

Junkrat was beside himself, but visibly relaxed at the old woman's comforting words. He breathed out a quivering sigh, "What's gonna happen to the inn?" _To you?_

Kip stared at them blankly before erupting into laughter, "Well, people always told me I should retire," she nudged Roadhog's arm, "Especially 'Hog over here. Maybe it's time to throw in the towel. Pass on the position of the town innkeeper to some other poor sap. Let _them_ deal with the damages, ha!"

"Staying here?" Roadhog asked while he gathered his tools and placed them in the bike's compartment.

"Nah. Too boring. Thought about heading east. Maybe go back to New Zealand. It'd be nice to see the ocean again. Gotta rev up the old chopper's engine."

Roadhog snorted in agreement. He wasn't too worried. Like the map, the woman was withered with time, but she had an old soul and a young spirit. Kip could take care of herself just fine.

Junkrat blinked, " _You_ drive a bike? Really?"

"Sure do! The ol' girl's in the garage. Probably needs a good fixer upper before I do any real travelling. I'll start working on her today, though," she grinned.

Junkrat couldn't help but grin right back, "Ripper."

She chuckled and held her hand out, "Thanks for staying at the Scraptown Inn. Y'know, it's company policy that I say that to every guest-"

"Aw, c'mere Gran!" Junkrat pulled Kip into a hug, lifting her off the ground.

The old woman laughed and patted his back, "Alright, alright. You're getting soot all over my dress," she joked.

"Heh, sorry," he put her down, and the two walked over to 'Hog. The big man had his back turned to them while he organized the vehicle's little storage space. Kip tapped him on the elbow.

"Hm?"

"Roadhog," the old woman held out her hand, "Thanks for staying at the Scraptown Inn."

There was a brief pause as Kip stared into opaque lenses.

A large hand slowly wrapped around the tiny wrinkled one. "Thanks Kip," 'Hog kneeled down and pulled her into a tight hug, "For everything." He took out the photographs he saved and gently placed them in her arms, "Here."

The old woman sniffed, "Oh no, you boys better go unless you wanna see a dinosaur cry," she joked again. "Seriously though, you two should get a move on. Make some progress before night falls."

Kip stuck around as the pair got ready to leave. Junkrat sarcastically pointed out the bike's lack of a side car. Roadhog grumbled, deciding that it was better if 'Rat sat up front rather than behind him. Considering the whole "I only have one hand, mate. How the hell am I supposed to hold on without falling off?" situation. After getting their supplies ready, the two boarded the vehicle, Junkrat giggling at the bike's lowered frame as Roadhog settled into the seat.

After one last goodbye, the engine roared to life, and the two men set off. They tore through the quiet streets, passing the corpses of the battle not too long ago, heading towards their next destination, with Junkrat babbling on about future plans and schemes and Sydney. Roadhog couldn't properly hear him over the wind and engine so he chose to tune him out. Now that he wasn't alone in his travels, he was going to miss the peace and quiet.

Mostly.

The longer they drove, the further away they got from the settlement. Scraptown became smaller and smaller before completely disappearing behind the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's currently five in the morning, and I'm updating this fic instead of sleeping like a good student should. I have finally admitted to myself that this ship has taken over my life.  
> Welp.  
> Thanks for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, and all that good stuff. It really means a lot to me :D !  
> **debascas on tumblr.com**


	11. Simba Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They cover a good amount of ground, and Roadhog knows a good place to lay low for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the thump-thump, the thumping in my chest,  
> As I loose the feeling in my fingertips.  
> When you are close to me I shiver.  
> -Shiver Shiver (Walk the Moon, 2012)

The ride was uneventful. Just the way Roadhog preferred it.

It was a nice change of pace compared to the hustle of the past few days. Junkrat's rambling and giggling died down as the sun lowered in the sky. Roadhog still couldn't make out his words over the engine anyway, and appreciated the lack of chatter. He kept his hands on the handlebars and his focus on the route. He huffed out a periodic sigh, relaxed.

Roadhog missed this. His travels. The inn was his second home, but he truly belonged on the old desert roads. Always moving, always seeking, never staying in one place for too long. Never getting too attached.

The scenery wasn't anything impressive. Sand, more sand, the sporadic patch of dead bush, a long line of rock formations to his left in the distance, more sand, some remains of old buildings, a small town a few kilometres away to his right, more sand, oh look! Even more sand.

Not much else to expect here in the wasteland.

The wind rushed past them, the roar of the engine rang in his ears, the scent of smoke wafted through his filters.

This was calm, peaceful, familiar.

Well, except for that last part. Inhaling the fumes coming from 'Rat's hair probably wasn't any good for his lungs. But 'Hog was more content than annoyed, the thrill of the battle still lingering around them. A good fight always got him in a better mood. Nothing like shooting a guy's head off to really pick up your spirits. Cruel and twisted, yes, but in his defence it had been for a good cause.

The Scraptown Inn.

Kip.

His mind wandered, tired of the Outback's scenic monotony. He hoped the little old lady achieved her goals once she was out of this shithole. Maybe she'd take a plane to New Zealand, find some relatives, buy a nice little beach hut, and spend the rest of her days fishing, sitting by the ocean. She always loved the ocean...

He sighed.

Cruel and twisted indeed, but it had been for a good cause. He pushed the thoughts of the destroyed inn and retirement aside. He relished in the prolonged rush of the battle instead, allowing his mood to brighten up. Just a little.

Junkrat, to his surprise, was silent.

He must have dozed off at some point. He was an awfully quiet sleeper for a man who never seemed to shut up. Roadhog glanced down to check on him.

Yup, definitely asleep.

Definitely in front of him.

Roadhog's breathing hitched, and he had half a mind to throw his employer off the bike.

Junkrat was leaning against his stomach, head below his snout, hair brushing against his filters, nestling between his legs and arms. He was still. Quiet. Undisturbed by the wind and dust. His spine dug into Roadhog's gut with each steady rise and fall of his chest.

Inhale. A poke.

Exhale. A prod.

Even in his sleep he still managed to be touchy-feely.

Roadhog took a deep breath, exasperated.

Junkrat smelled like smoke, gasoline, and rubbing alcohol. Remnants of his ingenious plan just mere hours before. He stirred slightly, hand and stump twitching, leaned back even more, before going still again.

This was... _he_ was...calm, peaceful...

...Unfamiliar.

Inhale. A poke.

Exhale. A prod.

...Annoying.

Roadhog grumbled, his grip on the handlebars tightening, Junkrat's breathing buzzing in his ears.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Repeat.

Roadhog didn't have the heart to wake him up.

So he drove on, eyes on the road, enjoying the silence, focused. They would have to stop somewhere to rest for the night. Roadhog already had a place in mind. It was just a matter of getting there.

Time passed. The sun eventually dipped below the horizon. Shades of yellows, pinks, and purples washed over the earth and sky, fading and fading, before they were replaced by a deep blue and the faint glow of the moon. The cold wind that came with desert nights whipped passed them, making Roadhog shiver and Junkrat squirm. The driver felt a pat on his arm and grunted. "Hm?" The other Junker was looking up at him. He saw the glint of 'Rat's eyes and his mouth move, but the engine drowned out the words. "Can't hear you."

"How much longer?" Junkrat shouted while he sat up to stretch, groggy and stiff.

"Almost there."

"To Junkertown?"

"No."

"Then where?"

Junkrat peeked over Roadhog's arm, looking over the vast canyon as they drove alongside the edge. He squinted, and he could make out faint yellow lights in the middle of the ravine. "But ain't that Junkertown down there?"

"Gotta go around the canyon. Find the path leading down," Roadhog stated, barely having to raise his voice since it already rose above the bike's revving. He made a sharp turn, and Junkrat crashed face first into a large forearm. He hissed and swore, rubbing his nose. Roadhog shook his head, slightly amused. "It'll take another couple days. Maybe less."

Junkrat nodded, settling into the seat, using Roadhog's gut as a back rest.

He was quiet again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Repeat.

They were approaching a dip in the route, and braced themselves as the bike lurched forward. Junkrat scrambled to hold on to something until a large hand rested on his chest, keeping him from getting tossed off the vehicle. Rough, broad, calloused fingers wrapped around his shoulders. His breath hitched and he froze, eyes scanning the rugged stone walls that bordered the path. Looking everywhere but behind him. Everywhere but Roadhog.

The touch jerked away once they hit flat ground. Junkrat suddenly felt cold again, exposed to the wind. He could see massive hands grip the handlebars, brass knuckles shining under the moonlight. The thumping in his chest grew louder. So loud that he hoped Roadhog couldn't hear it.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Repeat.

"We're here," Roadhog rumbled, and it sounded like thunder during a storm.

Junkrat shivered. It was only the wind, he told himself. "Where?"

"Simba Rock."

The engine sputtered to a halt as the bike slowed down. Junkrat jumped off the seat and stretched, back muscles sore and leg muscles cramping. He approached the edge of the cliffside and peered down, scowling at the town in the distance.

Roadhog parked the chopper near the entrance of the path and next to the opening of the cave. He rummaged through the compartment and pulled out the supplies the ex-Innkeeper gave them before leaving Scraptown. He got Junkrat's attention and tossed him a bag of rations.

"Dinner?"

Roadhog grunted, "Eat."

"Ta," Junkrat grinned. He dug around until he found a pack of kangaroo jerky, ripped it open, and tossed a handful of the dried meat in his mouth, chewing loudly. He sat down on the ground and sighed, waving the bag in the air, "Here 'Hog, take a piece."

Roadhog sat across from him holding his own bag of food, "No. You eat."

"Listen mate, I may be a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, but I know how to share! Been raised with manners after all...I think." Junkrat scooted closer and held the pack out, "Take one, I insist."

Roadhog didn't move. "I'm a vegetarian."

"Oh," he swallowed, "Carry on, then."

"Hm," Roadhog rumbled, "No worries."

Junkrat shivered again. Tried to mask it with a shrug.  

They ate in silence, staring down at the town's faint yellow lights, following the small plumes of smoke as they rose before dissipating into the sky. Junkrat scanned the barren landscape, orange eyes darting around in a search. "There," he pointed.

Roadhog followed his finger to a decrepit old shack on the outskirts of Junkertown. It stood closer to the Omnium ruins than most of the other pieced together buildings. Half submerged in the earth. Even in the dark of night he could see the bright, gaudy orange that the roof was painted in.

Orange.

He glanced down at the peg leg.

Orange.

He glanced up at eyes that seemed to glow under the moonlight.

Orange.

Yup, the same garish colour. Go figure.

The roof of the shack contrasted with the lower town's scheme of brown, beige, and grey, making it look more disconnected than it already was. Junkrat sighed, "Home sweet home."

Roadhog shifted in his seat, "You live alone?"

"Yeah."

"No family?"

"Nah," he coughed, "None that I remember, at least. You?"

"...No."

“…No one’s got much of a family these days,” Junkrat murmured, sombre. He cleared his throat, eager to change the topic, "Remind me why we're going back again?"

"Money. For travel expenses."

"Roight."

After they finished eating, they gathered their supplies and retreated into the small cave. It was certainly much warmer than the platform jutting out from the cliffside and overlooking the canyon.

"Got any paper?" Junkrat asked.

"Hm," Roadhog reached into the pocket of his armour, pulling out a pad and pencil. "I got some to spare."

"Ta."

"Too dark to see," he placed the stationery in an outstretched hand, "Too dark to write."

A click echoed, then a faint glow lit up their faces. The flicker of a small flame. Junkrat held the lighter up, grinning, "Got it covered." He jabbed a thumb at a hole in the ground, far enough from the cave's opening so that a fire wouldn't get extinguished by the wind. Convenient.

"Don't burn yourself," Roadhog grunted, "No big fires either. Attracts attention."

"Yeah, yeah," Junkrat waved him off, "It's late. Go to sleep. I'll take first watch."

"Hm," Roadhog nodded, "Wake me up if you wanna switch shifts."

"Yeah. Sure, mate."

Roadhog lumbered over to the bike, took out his bedroll, and set it down next to the pit. He shifted around, trying to get into a comfortable position; on his back, on his stomach, on his side. Eventually he decided on the last option and laid still, facing the pit, and facing Junkrat.

The other Junker sat hunched over the small crater in the ground. A good sized fire-pit for a particularly small fire. He crumpled some paper from the note pad and dropped it into the pit before setting the pieces ablaze with the lighter. A warm yellow glow washed over them and the rest of the cave. Small and faint, not enough to be noticed. Junkrat positioned the pad so he could see whatever he planned on scribbling down. Probably more plans and notes, Roadhog thought.

"Nice and toasty now, eh 'Hog?" A thin hand hovered over the flames, and Junkrat let out a relaxed sigh. "Probably miss sleeping on a bed though."

Roadhog grunted in agreement.

"Get some rest, mate. I'll mend the fire."

"Hm," 'Hog hummed, "Don't make too much noise."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just go to sleep," 'Rat laughed, low in both pitch and volume, "G'night."

"Night."

Outside, the wind picked up again, sending a shrill echo through the cave. Roadhog tried to fall asleep, keeping still and quiet, but his eyes remained open. Junkrat scribbled, planned, and drew. He threw the ideas he didn't like into the fire and tucked away the ones worth keeping in his boot.

Some time passed, maybe an hour or two. Roadhog still couldn't sleep, disturbed by the howling of the desert breeze and the crackling of the embers. Junkrat was still jotting down ideas. He talked an awful lot to himself and would constantly fidget. But he respected the fact that Roadhog was asleep, unbeknownst to him that the bodyguard was actually still awake, and kept his movements sparse and his voice a whisper. His gaze would occasionally flick upwards, staring into thick opaque lenses, and he would smile the softest smile Roadhog had ever seen on him in the mere days they’d known each other.

Despite the warmth of the flames, something about that look made Roadhog shiver, and Junkrat would throw more paper into the pit, keeping the fire going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys ever listen to songs and your chest just starts hurting because you think of all the fictional ships you have and you are in real physical pain because of them?  
> Because I do.  
> A lot.  
> Thanks for all the supportive comments and kudos everyone! :D Much appreciated


	12. Fire, Moon, Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat takes first watch.

The night sky was clear of smog, the stars shone brightly in a sea of deep blue, and the fact that Junkrat didn't notice any of this sooner bothered him.

Just a little. A nagging feeling in the back of his head.

He always noticed when the clouds parted, when Junkers would whoop and holler and point to the heavens, when the night's hidden treasures were revealed. He hadn't noticed the stars or the signs this time, and he couldn't find a reason why.

Something about pleasant desert nights made everything feel so...surreal. Like a spell mother nature casted across the Outback and its inhabitants. Nights like the one they shared on Simba Rock, when the stars were actually visible for goddamn once, were few and far between.

Pleasant nights made the radiated wasteland look like a dreamscape. The never-ending array of smog clouds would clear up. During that brief amount of time, the moonlight would spill across the rock and ruins, the scrap and structures, and the towns that dotted the region. Everything metallic would glow just ever so slightly, piercing the dark like scattered beacons. Scrap yards hundreds of kilometres away would look like glimmering cities, although people in the wastes knew better than to believe such an illusion.

Pleasant nights made the wildlife calmer. Less active and less vicious. They would stay further away from human settlements, not straying too far from their respective territories. There wouldn't be as many dingo attacks reported during these kinds of nights at least. The stars seemed to affect those feral mutated dogs too, and that was a comforting thought for many.

Pleasant nights made most Junkers less hostile, less bloodthirsty, less resentful. The stars acted like some form of divine peace agreement. Groups and gangs alike would gather together to admire the rarity above them, point out any constellations, bicker over alien conspiracies, and discuss life outside of earth. That kind of theoretical shit. Junkrat often referred to it as such whenever he peered through the loose boards of his shack, observing Junkers at their distant campsites just looking up at the sky like they were waiting for goddamn aliens to abduct them. Like they were counting stars and other celestial bodies. Like they were trying to memorize as much of the vastness as possible before the smog covers it up again. Before the pollution robs them of the sight. Before the stars disappear and the spell is broken. It was always the stars.

Pleasant nights exposed a hidden side of the Outback citizens. A side that they normally suppressed if they wanted to survive. A side that was almost vulnerable and sickeningly heart-warming. A side that contained what little humanity they had left.

Pleasant nights like the one they were currently sharing, bunkered down in a cliffside cave that Roadhog seemed to frequent.

 _That explains it_ , Junkrat thought. That explains a lot, why he and Roadhog were getting along without some sort of mediator (a.k.a. a certain Ex-innkeeper) to monitor them. Of course it was the stars. It was always the stars.

Junkrat usually spent these nights alone in his dilapidated home. He'd stop whatever he was scribbling or building or trapping, lay across the beaten up box spring mattress he called a bed, and stare up at the night sky through the gaping hole in the middle of his ceiling (which he really should have fixed now that he thought about it). He only saw the stars a handful of times in his life, and he never got tired of the sight, often spending hours just...staring, always staring. Always alone.

The stars looked the same, but the circumstances were quite different. This time he wasn't in his shack. He was in a cave. This time he wasn't laying on a grimy old mattress. He was sitting on cold hard stone. This time he wasn't alone.

He was with Roadhog.

The nagging in his head persisted.

Looking into the lenses of the bodyguard's mask for about the seventeenth time tonight, Junkrat wondered what Roadhog did during nights like this one. Did he go stargazing like a majority of the other Junkers?

Hm, no, that didn't sound like something he'd do, being an enforcer and whatnot. Ex-enforcer, he corrected himself. Surely Roadhog must have been a busy man, way too busy to be sitting around and gawking at the sky. He had a reputation to maintain after all. He wasn't called a living legend for nothing. The best in the business. Ruthless, merciless, and heartless. Roadhog - the Notorious Outback Enforcer, the Infamous Australian Butcher, the Walking Outback Steakhouse-

Junkrat snickered, clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle himself. That last title was only used to describe the Ex-enforcer when he wasn't around, of course. He forced the last of his quiet giggles out and tried to steady his composure. Wouldn't want to wake up the heifer. A sleepy driver was a dangerous driver after all.

Roadhog grunted softly, shifting on his side, before his wheezy breathing filled the cave again. Junkrat puffed out the air he'd been holding in and threw more paper into the pit.

The fire flickered as it ate away the remaining pieces, shrivelling them up, turning them an ashy black. The colour quickly spread over the contrasting eggshell white before it all became dust. It was quite the inconvenience; how paper lasted for such a short amount of time before completely burning up. A poor choice of fuel in his opinion.

The moon was perched on the peak of a distant rock formation in the horizon, like a silvery jewel orb resting on a rugged pedestal. It was only halfway through the night, but he was already low on paper. He used most of the pad on the fire rather than for himself. It only made sense. How else was he supposed to light up his thoughts and scribbles? To see the graphite glide across the smooth paper? To keep 'Hog warm while he slept?

Junkrat frowned at that last part. He tossed the last piece of paper into the pit before swivelling in his seat to face the cave entrance. To keep both of them warm, he thought. Not just the heifer, he insisted. Both of them.

The nagging travelled down to his throat and he coughed.

A deep sigh made Junkrat's chest deflate as he took in the sight. The stars were awe-inspiring, just like always. Little twinkling explosions in the sky. Beautiful. Absolutely Beautiful. He never got tired of them. Never had, probably never will.

He could hear the echoing hollers of the Junkertown locals hundreds of metres below them. The clang of scrap metal. The crackling of much larger fires. The chatter of large groups as they camped out for the night.

It still bothered him; how he didn't notice the stars or the signs of their reveal before. Now that Roadhog was asleep they were painfully obvious. Perhaps he just wasn't paying attention to them.

Junkrat yawned, pushing the nagging feeling aside, and turned back to the pit. The fire grew smaller, the last few pieces of paper were quickly consumed by the flames, and the cave became dimmer. And dimmer, and dimmer, until the faint yellow glow died down, replaced by the night's deep blue.

The wind picked up again. A charred remain of paper flew up from the pit, carrying a tiny orange ember. It fluttered in the breeze, swaying back and forth, before drifting dangerously close to the snout of the pig mask. Junkrat reached out and snatched the still burning piece from the air, smothering the last ember in a gloved hand. He stared at the crushed ash in his open palm, then at the bodyguard. The nagging returned and it made his face warm despite the absence of a fire.

Roadhog.

It was Roadhog.

The realization was sudden, hitting him like a punch to the face. It was the heifer, of all people. _He_ was the reason why he didn't notice the signs. Why he didn't notice the stars sooner.

He crawled over to the other side of the cave, resting his back on the rock, letting the rough surface cool him down. His face was still warm, the nagging was still there, and he didn't like it. Roadhog laid a few feet away from him, now rolled over on his back.

The stars were out all night, much longer than Junkrat usually expected. The entrance of the cave was a window and he, like many others, was the observer. He tried to fulfill that role, he really did. But his eyes wouldn't listen to him. His gaze had a mind of its own, frequently sneaking glances at Roadhog, watching the steady rise and fall of his gut with every breath. He just looked so tired. Junkrat couldn’t see his face, but he _must_ have been exhausted after driving all day. The least he could do was let him sleep for the whole night.

Junkrat stayed like that until morning came, listening to the howling of the wind and letting the rock cool his skin. Before long, the sun's rays peered over the canyon's edge and flooded the cave. He knew that the stars were gone, and their spell over the land was broken in an instant. The incessant smog clouds rolled across the sky once more, and were there to stay for at least the next few months. The Junkers far below ceased their festivities and grudgingly returned to town.

The Outback's natural order, or lack thereof, was restored.

The stars were gone. But the nagging in his mind and the warmth on his cheeks remained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School started on Tuesday and writer's block has been kicking my ass but I managed to write something that's somewhat comprehensible. Sorry for the shorter chapter guys, but the next one will have wayyy more plot for sure. Thanks for reading! Have an awesome weekend, and shout out to anyone back in school let's make this a great year guys!


	13. Vehement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat and Roadhog have some unfinished business in Junkertown. Junkrat doesn't like it one bit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am tired of this place, I hope people change.   
> I need time to replace what I gave away.   
> And my hopes, they are high, I must keep them small.   
> Though I try to resist, I still want it all. 
> 
> I see swimming pools and living rooms and aeroplanes.  
> I see a little house on the hill and children's names.  
> I see quiet nights poured over ice and Tanqueray.  
> But everything is shattering and it's my mistake.
> 
> Only fools fall for you, only fools.  
> Only fools do what I do, only fools fall. 
> 
> -Fools (Troye Sivan, 2015)

The bodyguard's equally infamous hook and chain glinted in the light of the morning sun. 

Junkrat gulped, eyeing the weapon wearily, as it dangled just inches away from his face. "You've gotta be kidding." 

Roadhog sighed, "I'm not." 

The recently polished hook swayed back and forth, like a menacing pendulum. 'Rat laughed nervously. "Nah, you-you're pulling my leg." He giggled at the pun and wiggled his peg in the air, "Heh, get it?" 

Roadhog said nothing, unamused, and dropped the hook on the ground between them. It hit the stone with a resonating clang. 

Junkrat winced and sheepishly lowered his leg at the lack of a reaction, "There's gotta be another plan."

"This is the only plan."

"C'mon, mate. You can't be serious." 

"Dead serious." 

"Roadhog." 

"Junkrat." 

"Ugh, fine, I get it! This is the only plan." The shorter Junker frowned, narrowed his eyes, and leaned forward to peer into the gas mask's lenses, "Alroight. Let me understand this, 'Hog. Step by step recap." He took a deep breath and held up a finger, "First, the only way for us to even  _get_  the cash is if you bring me back to Junkertown."

"Right." 

Two fingers were held up. "Second, the only way you  _can_  bring me back to Junkertown is if I'm, as you say, ' _chained and hooked_ '." 

"Right." 

Junkrat crossed his arm and shook his head in disbelief, "What the fuck, mate." 

"Rat," Roadhog sighed again. They've been over this already. "I was hired to hunt you down." 

"Okay, yeah. But do you really have to-"

"Yes."

"But can't we do something else-"

"No."

"-Like, with explosions? I still got a couple of cocktails left-"

"Rat," Roadhog said, a hint of warning in his tone, " _Focus_." 

"Okay fine. Focus. Completely focused here, 'Hog." Junkrat rolled his eyes and held up three fingers, "Third, we gotta pretend that you ' _captured_ ' me, then you ' _hand_ ' me over to the folks that hired you in the first place, and then we somehow skip town once  _you_  get paid." 

"Right." 

Junkrat rubbed his chin, "Could've sworn this plan had more steps."

Roadhog snorted. He'd covered them all in his last point. The aforementioned steps could hardly be called a plan. More like a series of actions with no actual detail. 

"Great," Junkrat scowled and stuffed more jerky into his mouth. Loud chewing filled the brief silence before he stated the obvious, "So I'm the bait." 

"More of a trade-off," Roadhog said, getting up from his seat in the cave and lumbering over to the bike with the bed roll tucked under his arm. "You in exchange for the money." He stopped mid-step when a piece of jerky hit him in the back of the head, landing on the ground with a small plop. A leather glove creaked as large hands tightened into fists. Scrawny bastard. 

"Not funny," Junkrat scoffed. His throat felt dry, his lips were cracked, parched. He uncapped his canteen, about to take a swig, when that same piece of jerky whacked him across the forehead. He yelped, then glared at the bodyguard, who continued walking and stepped out into the sunlight. 

"Neither are you." 

Junkrat grumbled and muttered some choice obscenities under his breath. Pig-face didn't know what he was talking about. He was funny! Absolutely bloody hilarious.  _Hmph_. He peeled the jerky from his forehead and tossed it into his mouth. Bits of rock that stuck to the dried meat made it hard to chew, and he probably should have brushed them off before eating it, but oh well. No sense in letting perfectly good food go to waste. 

Outside the cave, Roadhog rummaged through the bike's compartment, sorting out their supplies and stuffing the bedroll into the little space he managed to clear out. Junkrat's reaction to the supposed plan was expected, and, of course, he was not the slightest bit pleased. But if they wanted to get past Junkertown's strict border control without causing suspicion, then they had to assume the roles of enforcer and bounty.

Easy for Roadhog. For Junkrat on the other hand, not so much. Given the part he had to play, it was no surprise that the little shit showed some apprehension to the idea. 

What  _was_  surprising, however, was that Roadhog actually managed to sleep the whole night away. He reminded the rat to wake him up and switch shifts, but the expected rude awakening never came. Instead, his eyes shot open to reveal streams of light streaking across the cave, the ash-filled fire pit, and Junkrat sitting against the rock wall across from him. When their eyes met (or in 'Hog's case, lenses), he was merely greeted with a clumsy wave and a groggy "G'day." 

That was about an hour ago, before they'd eaten breakfast and ran through the "plan" twice already. Junkrat grew apparently more anxious at the notion of  _actually_  returning to Junkertown. While Roadhog explained the procedure, the other man would try to change the topic and cracked terrible jokes to mask his worry. He was stalling, and he failed miserably at it, in Roadhog's opinion. 

A drawn out yawn reached Roadhog's ears and interrupted his thoughts. The periodic tapping of a peg leg against solid rock soon followed, indicating that Junkrat finally decided to get up from his newly accustomed spot. Roadhog turned around to find him standing at the entrance of the cave, an empty bag of jerky in hand, and straightening his spine to stretch after sitting down for so long.

It was the first time he'd seen Junkrat actually stand his full damn height. He had to be over six feet tall, only being about a head shorter than Roadhog. What the treasure hunter lacked in brawns he definitely made up through sheer height alone. Roadhog had crossed paths with plenty of broad, muscle-bound Junkers in his time, but none could compete with him height-wise. Junkrat came pretty damn close to that criteria.

However, the moment was short lived, and Junkrat swiftly reverted back to his normally hunched posture. The dark bags under his eyes were more noticeable in the sunlight. Roadhog shook his head, "Should've switched shifts last night." 

Junkrat crumpled the bag and stuffed it into his pocket. "Could always just sleep on the way there," he muttered, "Ain't the one driving. Figured you needed it more than me." He shrugged stiffly, a sour look on his face, and hobbled towards the edge of the cliff. 

Roadhog sighed and turned back to the bike, organizing the cluttered space. If the rat wanted to go off and mope then by all means there's nothing or no one stopping him. Unless he could produce a bag full of cash out of thin air, they were going back to Junkertown whether he liked it or not. 

It was quiet for a mere five minutes. Well, as quiet as it could be with having a twitchy Junker for a travel companion. The tap of a peg leg echoed over the canyon as Junkrat paced back and forth, mumbling words under his breath that were too jumbled up to form coherent sentences. The lack of conversation was interrupted by a frustrated yell and the sound of rocks clacking against each other.

"Stupid, piece of shit town," he spat, kicking another rock over the cliff's edge, "Bloody fuckin' wankers, all of them. Greedy, selfish, lousy, good-for-nothin' bastards!" Each insult was punctuated by a kick that sent rocks sailing across the canyon. 

Roadhog merely watched from the bike, keeping a relatively safe distance from the other Junker's sudden outburst. He quickly decided he wasn't going to get involved. Dealing with Junkrat's emotional baggage was _not_ part of their agreement, and it was damn sure going to stay that way. The ridiculous hissy fit would pass. He would stand right next to the bike and away from the dust cloud Junkrat was kicking up until it did. 

The episode ended much sooner than Roadhog had anticipated. Junkrat stomped around and punted rocks until every small piece ended up at the bottom of the ravine. His angry breathing became steadier until he trailed off, panting, exhausted by the lack of sleep and wasting a burst of pent-up energy. The pacing slowed and became trudging. Eventually his repetitive movements ceased altogether. Junkrat stood still, fist clenched, shoulders shaking. He stared into the canyon with his back towards Roadhog. 

_He better not be crying. He better not._

An audible sigh made Junkrat's shoulders slump. He slowly made his way towards the cliff's edge, lowering himself until he was sitting, legs dangling hundreds of metres above patches of dead brush. His head hung low and his breathing was heavy. 

_No. Not getting involved. That's final._

A twitchy hand gripped blond hair. Junkrat began tugging, and tufts of burnt locks ripped away from his scalp. The action looked painful, made Roadhog cringe, but he was unaffected, yanking out chunks of hair with practiced ease.

 _That explains the bald spots_ , Roadhog thought, balling up his fists before taking a step forward. He was going to regret this.

Cursing the life decisions that led him up to this moment, Roadhog grumbled and shambled towards his employer until he was standing over him. Junkrat didn't seem to notice, orange eyes focused on the little old shack, a grim expression across his face. Only when Roadhog sat beside him did he stir from his daze.

"Shit. Didn't see you," he mumbled, voice scratchy from all the yelling. 

Roadhog merely nodded, both annoyed and perplexed at how absolutely spacey the other man was. He wasn't exactly hard to miss, but Junkrat seemed to do a pretty good job at blocking everything and everyone out when he was deep in thought, even someone as unmistakable as the seven feet tall behemoth. 

Junkrat's stare travelled downwards, and he ran a trembling thumb over the hair in his hand, "Fuck," he croaked, "Fuck. I did it again." He opened his palm, letting the hair get picked up and carried away by the wind. They watched the blond strands ride the wild currents of the morning breeze. "Need to quit this hair pulling crap, 'Hog. I already loose enough on my head, radiation and whatnot," he laughed, but it came out strained and forced, "Nervous habit, I suppose." 

Roadhog blinked. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Junkrat was fine with that, almost grateful for the lack of a response, and brought his gaze back to the gaudy orange roof. The colour was even more obnoxious in the sunlight. The home stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the lower town's drab wooden structures and their shining metal reinforcements. 

Junkrat's shack was simply out of place. Too colourful. Too bright. Separated from the rest of Junkertown.

Lonely. 

Even from up here, it felt very, very lonely.

"They were gonna kill me." 

Roadhog blinked again, slowly turning towards Junkrat, and there was a watery look in those orange eyes. 

_Oh hell no. Not again._

Junkrat sniffed, wiping the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. He could sense Roadhog's stare. No, he  _wasn't_  crying. He was a goddamn Junker and Junkers don't cry. Snap out of it. He shook his head and laughed bitterly, "You make one accidental discovery in the fuckin' Omnium and suddenly everyone within a five hundred kilo radius is after you. Bloody unbelievable, eh?" 

Roadhog grunted, nodding to show that he was listening. 

"I was just a regular scavenger. Like everyone else in this shithole canyon. Sold scrap from the ruins just to scrape by. Had to put my shack smack dab in the middle just to access both the town and the Omnium. Why?" he paused, hitting his metal leg against the stone, "Fuckin' peg leg, that's why. Built the shack out of wood and metal with my own hands. Painted the roof myself."

He was rambling again. It seemed to calm him down, so Roadhog let him go on about whatever was on his mind. 

"Always did everything by myself. Had a couple of acquaintances but no way in hell were they gonna help me. Had to look out for yourself and only yourself. Survival of the fittest, they always said. Underestimated me because of my leg, but I fuckin' showed them! Proved those wankers wrong." 

His ranting became more frantic, his eyes more manic. Roadhog's willingness to hear him out was wearing uncomfortably thin. 

"Said I was crazy for trying to dig deeper, said there wasn't anything down in the heart of the ruins. Proved them wrong. Proved every single one of them  _wrong_! And what do I get for it?" He paused again, as if expecting and actual answer from the bodyguard, and he snarled when he didn't get one, "I got chased outta town. My  _home_. Gave blood, sweat, and my whole damn  _life_  to Junkertown and this is what I get in return. Casted out and driven away from the only place I've ever  _known_. Wandered the fuckin' desert for two weeks!  _Got my bloody arm hacked off!_ " He was practically screaming now, words echoing and cutting through the stillness, stump trembling at the mention of the incident. "Bastards who did it couldn't even  _cut_  properly. Placed the shears right at the bend. Wanted to get rid of my whole forearm but the method was sloppy. Or maybe I was squirming too much. Ended up leaving two inches below the elbow. How fuckin'  _gracious_  of them-"

" _Enough._ " Roadhog had enough. He couldn't listen to this anymore. The pain in the rat's voice was too much to deal with so early in the day. The trauma involving his arm was obviously a sensitive topic, and Roadhog didn't want to hear it. It felt wrong to know about what happened before he came along. Made his gut stir and his chest hurt. Without thinking, he reached out and placed a massive hand on a bony shoulder. "Rat," he squeezed, not too hard, but enough to make Junkrat quiet down. "Stop." 

Junkrat blinked, looking around as if he didn't know where he was, or what he was doing. Was he rambling? Damn it. He was rambling again, wasn't he? Shit. He stared at Roadhog nervously, like he was expecting to be throttled. "Sorry," he closed his eyes shut, forcing the tears back behind purple lids, "Sorry." 

"No." Roadhog's grip tightened slightly. "Don't be. Not your fault." The smaller man was a shaking mess, and Roadhog thought that if he let go he'd go back to his tirade again. 

"I didn't-" Junkrat's voice cracked, a big mistake, his anger lost in the slip up. His mouth trembled as he took a deep, quivering breath. He couldn't meet Roadhog's gaze. " _I didn't ask for this._ " He sniffed and buried his head in the crook of his arm, trying so hard to hide his face. 

A tired sigh filtered through the gas mask. Roadhog nodded, hand moving from squeezing his shoulder to giving awkward pats on his back, "I know." Broad fingers and old leather brushed against soot-covered skin. Roadhog closed his eyes and looked away when he heard muffled sobbing, hating the way it shook Junkrat's gaunt, skinny frame. 

Damn it. He couldn't do this. He was the worst possible candidate when it came to comforting others. He shouldn't be here. He could be anywhere else but here. It would be so easy to just get up, drive away, and never look back. But he couldn't leave. The sudden sharp pang in his chest stopped him.

"Don't let them kill me, Roadhog." The phrase was weak, snivelling, hesitant. Junkrat looked so frail under the giant's hand. "Please."

This was wrong. This was all wrong.

Roadhog's mind screamed, demanded him to walk away. 

But the remains of his heart ordered him to stand his ground, begged him to stay, urged him to say something. 

Anything.  

"I know." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my younger sister for taking the time to proofread my gay literature :'). She always gives amazing feedback and I never post an update without running it by her first. So thank you sis! For always supporting my fandom endeavors and reading through 30 000 words of Junker fanfiction. She's a real MVP. ((Also, if you guys like K-Pop and shitposting you can find her at dillscorner and me at debascas, both on tumblr.com)) Thanks for reading everyone, and have a great week!


	14. Apple of the Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat's too damn skinny. Roadhog is slightly concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know who I am when I’m alone.  
> I’m something else when I see you.  
> You don’t understand, you should never know.  
> How easy you are to need. 
> 
> Don’t let me in with no intention to keep me.  
> Jesus Christ! Don’t be kind to me.  
> Honey don’t feed me – I will come back.
> 
> -It Will Come Back (Hozier, 2014)

The next few days followed a rather monotonous schedule.

Eat, drive, bicker, eat, sleep, and repeat. There wasn't much else for the pair to do out here in the wastes.

Alright, so maybe there was more to the routine than that. There was also Junkrat's persistence to do every Junker's favourite pastime: scrapping for useful junk ("Gotta find some wires and shells to make my bombs, mate! I'd hate to brag or anything, but you're in the presence of an expert."). Not to mention Roadhog's insistence on skirting the perimeter of the canyon until they reached the town's entrance ("We need the money, 'Rat. The sooner the better."). It was a tedious journey, and a repetitive routine.

Again, not much to do in the Outback, but at least it wasn't so lonesome anymore.

Although Roadhog would be lying if he said he didn't miss the quiet of his solo nomadic lifestyle. There were times when Junkrat's shrill voice and happy-go-lucky attitude proved to be too loud, too grating, too irritating for his liking. Roadhog tolerated his attempts at conversation and erratic behaviour for the most part. The idiot was his employer, after all. Couldn't exactly punch Junkrat in the teeth to get him to stop talking. Not that he wanted to, anyway.

Okay, so _maybe_ he wanted to, just a little bit. A nice solid hit to that lopsided grin, enough to get the message across.

However, the rat was his boss, and a professional such as himself couldn't punch his boss in the face (unless the bastard really crossed a line). It just didn't work that way in the job field, unfortunately.

Besides, travelling with Junkrat wasn't _all_ bad. There were times when he was actually surprisingly good company. Moments when his high-pitched maniacal laughter was soft and low, when his jokes and puns weren't too terrible. Heck, the rat would even offer Roadhog some of his own food despite his lean and near-skeletal state.

"You're like, what, four times my weight? Just guessing. Would need a whole cargo truck to feed ya, I bet," Junkrat said during dinner that night, trying to justify his outstretched hand offering yet another bag of jerky. It was the fifth one he'd eaten today. "Y'know, those clunky lookin' ones that sometimes drive through town and drop off supplies. Usually reserved for the higher-ups though. Greedy drongos keep all the goods to themselves. Leaves the rest of us to hunt or starve," He made a face and spat over the edge of the canyon, "I used to sneak past the guards sometimes. All stealthy and sneaky. Would steal a crate or two. Now that showed them, ha!"

Roadhog couldn't help but wonder if Junkrat had ever been caught. He looked down and snuck a peek at the peg leg. There were severe risks and repercussions when it came to stealing. Especially if someone didn't get away with it.

Junkrat seemed to sense the unspoken question, "Not how I lost my leg, by the way," he shrugged, "Good guess, but I ain't no amateur, 'Hog. Anyways, the food in the crates usually lasted me two weeks, sometimes longer if I skipped out on meals. Even forgot to eat at times, heh," He blinked and got quiet, eyes glazing over the canyon again, before he shook his head, "What was I saying...? Oh! Roight," He waved the bag around, bringing it closer to Roadhog's face, "Here mate, take some."

Roadhog stared at him, waiting for the realization to strike. He was both amazed and annoyed at how short-term Junkrat's memory was. Meanwhile, he also grudgingly thought about what Junkrat said, the "skipping meals" part, unable to push the idea aside.

  _Fool_ , Roadhog sighed internally, staring at the bag of jerky. _Junkrat's_ bag of jerky. _The rat's a damn fool_.

 _He_ was the one being offered food when it really should have been the _other_ way around. Taking his massive gut and relatively strong stature into consideration, Roadhog was one of the more fortunate ones out here in the Outback. Prosperous in both wealth and success. Unlike his travel companion; a hobbling, perpetually hunched over, underweight, fifty-year-old-looking man.

Actually, now that he thought about it, how old was Junkrat anyway? _Was_ he in his fifties? Forties? Thirties? It's gotten pretty hard to determine the age of most Junkers these days. Mostly due to radiation, manual labour, poverty, etcetera, etcetera.

The rustling of a bag brought Roadhog back to the present. Oh, right, the jerky was being waved at his face. Again.

Junkrat returned Roadhog's impassive look with a wide grin, shoving the bag closer. "C'mon, Hoggo. One bite won't hurt."

For Christ's sake, the other man had an atrocious memory. A broad finger soon nudged the offering away. Roadhog shook his head, "No, you eat."

"What gives?" Junkrat shoved the bag closer, "I just wanna share. It's not everyday that I'm willing to part from such a fine selection of dried meat. You clearly need way more food than I do, ya big lug."

He sighed, "Vegetarian, remember."

Junkrat's smile faltered, "Oh." He rubbed his face with his stump, smearing soot across a protruding cheek bone. "Shoot. Totally slipped my mind."

 _Of course it did_. "Just eat," Was the simple reply. It didn't matter if he was being given jerky or a damn salad. Roadhog wouldn't take any food from the rat. Not when he could see the other man's spine poking out from his hunched back. Not when his ribs were as prominent as his abs.

Junkrat was just...too skinny, especially for someone his height. Honestly, it was slightly concerning.

"Back at ya, mate. You barely had a bite yourself." There was a thoughtful look on Junkrat's face. He rubbed his chin, "Now that I think about it, I never see you eat. How do you even scarf down food with that mask in the way?"

Too damn skinny, too goddamn nosy. Roadhog sighed, tired of the constant stream of questions and inquiries. He reached into his own bag and pulled out an apple, dented in some places but still very much edible, and threw it in Junkrat's general direction.

The scrawny man reached out and caught the offering. He let out a small gasp, realizing what it was, and gaped at Roadhog with an expression more bug-eyed than usual. He acted like he'd been given a stack of cash rather than a simple snack. Completely speechless and caught by surprise.

Fresh fruit was a luxury out here in the wastes. Judging by the look on his gaunt face, Junkrat didn't get to eat things like this very often.

Roadhog nodded to him "Eat."

Junkrat opened his mouth to say something. All he could manage was a warbled "Why-?" before Roadhog cut him off. The bodyguard nudged the apple and jerky closer to him.

" _Eat_ ," he repeated.

"Yeesh. Relax, 'Hog." He tossed a handful of dried meat into his mouth and chewed loudly, a grin slowly stretching across his face, "Happy?"

Roadhog grunted, rolled his eyes, and shook his head. Junkrat snickered and punched the pig's shoulder lightly, then carefully placed the apple on his lap to save for later. "Ta, mate." He turned his attention back to the town, watching plumes of smoke as they rose to join the smog-covered night sky.

If they had gone by Roadhog's schedule, they surely would've been back in Junkertown by now. He knew it only took a few days to travel from Simba Rock to the Junker Capital, maybe less if he really floored it. The only reason why they were still out here in the first place was because of Junkrat. If the circumstances were different, if the roles were reversed, if he was with any other person, Roadhog would've brought them back to town by pure force regardless of the desperate protests that would come his way.

It's not like he _didn't_ want to put his foot down, demand they get this damn plan over with, and drag the Outback's most wanted man back to Junkertown, ignoring any kicking and screaming. He just...didn't want to see the bastard cry again. He's heard and witnessed enough of _that_ to last him multiple lifetimes.

"I'm fine," Junkrat had insisted days ago, shrugging off Roadhog's hand from his back. A hoarse laugh curled up the corners of his mouth. "Let's just do this, 'Hog. Get the money, kill anyone who gets in our way, and leave." He put a slight emphasis on "leave," tittering to cover it up. After a few mumbled apologies and thanks directed at Roadhog, the two set off and were on the road once again.

Roadhog knew Junkrat wasn't "fine." Whenever they traveled down the dusty barren highway, he heard the rat's ragged breathing over the roar of the engine, felt his usual tremors get worse as they got closer and closer to their destination.

Even now there was a nervous flicker in those orange eyes. Junkrat peered into the canyon, observing the town like he was scanning for an unseen threat. The empty bag in his hand crinkled. Roadhog could practically see the gears turning in that frazzled head of his.

Junkrat suddenly tore his gaze from the town, now staring straight into opaque lenses. The small smile he wore was weary and didn't quite reach his eyes. He looked tired, exhausted even, no surprise since the idiot always volunteered to take first watch, neglecting to wake Roadhog up and switch shifts. He'd always end up sleeping while they were driving. Trying to get some rest while moving at hair-whipping speeds probably wasn't a pleasant experience.

"Hog."

"Hm."

"How much longer?"

There was a brief silence as Roadhog thought about it. "Five hours until we reach the Gate," he finally said, "Leave first thing in the morning. Get there before noon."

The corners of Junkrat's mouth twitched. "That's...good," he squeaked, eyes and smile widening, "That's great."

Roadhog sighed. Not this again.

Junkrat coughed, "Whoops, voice crack," he forced out a laugh, but Roadhog wasn't the slightest bit convinced. "No, really 'Hog. We're making some good progress."

"Would be better progress if you didn't make us stop at every scrap heap we pass."

"Oi!" Junkrat huffed, "I'm a scavenger. I see scrap, I go scrapping. It's in my blood! I just...wait, shite, I remembered something. Hold on."

Roadhog rolled his eyes, _That's a first_. He watched as the other man fished through his shorts pocket. Junkrat pulled out some thin wires, which he had found in a pile of scrap wedged between two rock formations earlier that day. Being the long-time "expert" scavenger that he was, Junkrat managed to salvage some usable parts and quickly got to work. He had prepared over a dozen shells for his explosives in the span of three hours, and cheerfully declared that he was halfway done to completing his first set of bombs. The shells and remaining volatile components, some cleaning supplies and gunpowder that he mooched-off from the inn, were all kept in Junkrat's bag inside separate labelled containers.

Roadhog didn't know how to feel about his boss' apparent obsession with explosives. He made sure that Junkrat carried his shells, chemicals, and gun powder in his own bag instead of keeping it in the motorcycle's compartment. No way in hell was Roadhog going to let this idiot store items that could potentially blow up his bike _inside_ his bike.

"Wait a tic, mate." Junkrat hummed a familiar tune as he got to work again. He traced a rectangle in the sand between them, omitting one side and labelling the empty space "The Gate".

The Gate was the sole entrance and exit of Junkertown. The canyon, with its stone walls that stood hundreds of metres tall, surrounded the whole settlement as well as the jagged ruins of the Omnium. The only way to leave town was to pass through the Gate and outsmart its harsh boarder control. Definitely not an easy feat. Status clearly played a part in it. The higher-ups could come and go as they pleased. The scavengers, on the other hand, not so much.

Junkrat drew an almost-perfect circle in the middle of the rectangle and called it "The Dome."

Roadhog grunted, shifting a little in his seat. The Dome...well...lets just say that the Dome was the last place any Junker would want to visit.

After taking off his old leather boot, Junkrat began shaping the wires. Bending and twisting them to form tiny bear traps. He placed the finished ones inside the rectangle at various positions, scattered between the Gate and the Dome.

Roadhog merely observed, mildly annoyed, yet slightly impressed at how nimble Junkrat's remaining fingers were. The normally twitchy Junker moved with precise concentration, able to use both his fingers and toes to shape the wire, much to Roadhog's surprise. A skill like that must have taken plenty of practice. Though he didn't have a clue why anyone would bother to learn how to tinker with their feet. Or foot, in Junkrat's case.

Junkrat ran out of wire soon after. He didn't seem to mind. He hummed, peering into the canyon and then readjusting some of the mini bear traps. Moved them a few centimetres up, down, left, right, or whatever he saw fit. Satisfied with the placement, he clasped his hand and stump together. "There. All done."

Roadhog titled his head, staring at the diagram. "What's this?"

"A diagram, Hoggo."

"I know that. What's it for?"

A tiny bear trap was held up at eye-level in Junkrat's hand, "You see this little thing here?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know what it is?"

He shrugged, "Looks like a bear trap."

"Roight you are, mate. A teenie replica of the real thing," Junkrat giggled and placed the trap in a spot that made sense only to him, joining the rest of its brethren. "You see, few weeks ago, while I was en route to my escape, I dropped a few of these bad boys all throughout town. Sounds terrible, I know. But I had to stop people from chasing me one way or another, roight? Can't run after me with a missing leg or two!" He let out a low cackle, wiggling his peg in the air.

Roadhog crossed his arms. What did this have to do with anything?

"I'm getting there, 'Hog," Junkrat lowered his leg. Shit. Now the rat could read minds? "Anyways, out of the few I had on-hand, I think I had time to bury maybe...hm...twenty-three traps? Yeah, sounds about roight. Would trigger when someone stepped on them. They're all scattered throughout the northern half of town, along the Gate, and up the slope leading out into the open Wastes."

"...And?"

"Well, judging by the number of blood splatters I could see from up here, only seven of the buried ones were triggered. That means there's sixteen hidden traps on our route."

"..."

"Sixteen possible places where your bike could potentially get a flat tire."

Now _that_ got Roadhog's full attention. He gritted his teeth, "Rat," he began, "You know where you planted them, right?"

Junkrat blinked.

" _Rat_."

Junkrat giggled, "Heh, of course, mate! I told you, I ain't no amateur. Just look at this here diagram. I'll let you know if I spot one so you can swerve outta the way or something. Or avoid stepping on it. We need some kind of code word, though. Can't just yell 'trap!' now can I."

Roadhog sighed and gestured to the sand and wire. "Was the model necessary?"

"Yes, now shhh! Trying to think." Junkrat hummed and tapped his chin. He stared at the diagram, slowly bringing his gaze to the shiny red fruit his lap. Oh. He snapped his fingers, "Apple."

"Apple?"

"Apple! I mean, I guess it works. It's innocent sounding enough. Not to cause suspicion. What do you think?"

Roadhog shrugged. He was pretty sure that shouting the supposed code word would be just as suspicious as stating the obvious. This was stupid, but it worked for now, "Okay."

Junkrat grinned, "Okay! Alroight. I think it's time to get some shut-eye, mate. We've got a big day ahead of us."

Roadhog grunted in agreement. He was beginning to get a little drowsy.

"I'll take first watch."

"No. You haven't slept properly in three days," Roadhog pointed out.

"I never sleep properly and you're the one driving," Junkrat retorted.

Roadhog shook his head and sighed. Fair enough. He trudged towards the bike, nestled between the two rock formations they found earlier that day, grabbed his bed roll, and set it down next to the vehicle. He flopped onto to the cushioned mat and tried to get himself comfortable. On his back seemed to be the least compromising position, giving him a view of all directions except downwards. He glanced at Junkrat, only to find the other man staring at him, apple in hand, orange eyes and yellowing teeth piercing through the darkness. Roadhog didn't like that look, "What is it?"

"Hehe, hey 'Hog."

"What?"

Junkrat held up the fruit and pointed at an eye with his stump, "Guess you could say that you're..."

 _Here it comes_ , Roadhog internally sighed. Goddamn it. Another one of his puns.

Junkrat's shit-eating grin suddenly dropped. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish now, eyebrows knitted together, "Er, never mind. Forget I said anything." He swivelled in his seat to face the diagram, his back towards Roadhog. "Goodnight, mate."

Huh. That was weird, but Roadhog had neither the energy or care to question him. "Night."

"Sleep tight."

"Hmhm."

"Don't let the bedbugs bite."

"Rat," he grumbled, "Shut up." 

Junkrat snickered and turned around to shoot him a wink. Roadhog rolled his eyes before looking up at the vast expanse of air pollution. The moonlight illuminated the smog clouds, giving them a dark green tint. He let out a deep breath through his nose. He regretted sleeping through the night days ago after Junkrat told him about the sky. Seeing the stars was a rare occurrence and he missed it; the nightly smog wouldn't clear up for at least a few more months.

The munch of an apple pulled Roadhog from his thoughts. Seems like Junkrat finally decided to eat the damn thing. He glanced over to the other man one more time. Junkrat's demeanour did a complete one-eighty whenever he was on night guard. Being the normally loud and obnoxious fool that he was, it was a relief to see him keep his noise and movements to a minimum. He sat in the sand, ate the fruit slowly to savour every bite, occasionally peeked into the canyon, and made a few more adjustments to the mini trap layout. At some point he rummaged through his bag and laid out the components of his bombs - shells, chemicals, powder, and all.

Roadhog closed his eyes and intertwined his fingers together, resting both hands on his stomach. He let himself be lulled to sleep by the tinkering of metal and the crunching of an apple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My gosh it's been almost a month D: School is death and university application dates are coming up soon but that won't stop me from updating! The ship has consumed me and I can't stop writing for the trash men no matter how hard I try. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, and all that good stuff. Have a great weekend and Happy Thanksgiving to all you Canadians out there!


	15. One Less to Worry About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last pit stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, it's been forever since the last update. School is wild but I'm back with a quick one before November starts.  
> Happy Halloween everyone! I hope you all got plenty of candy. Thank you for reading!

_Oh my god. I'm a bleedin' idiot._

Junkrat took a deep breath as he bit his nails down to the cuticles. One of his many impulsive habits. The already uneven tips became pointy and jagged, the sensitive nail bed stung as teeth scraped against skin. 

He watched the thick smog clouds slowly lighten into a dull yellow-green. It was morning now. Another voluntary sleepless night had passed without incident. 

Uneventful, but pleasant by Junker standards, nonetheless.

Junkrat spent his whole shift occupying himself with his bombs and tinkering away. They were finally finished, ready to be lobbed at any potential threat, and sat in a neat little pyramid at his feet. Now all they needed was a signature coat of yellow paint, which he'd have to pick up at his shack once he and Roadhog got the money. Couldn't forget about the decorative smiley faces too.

Now that the bombs were done, there was nothing for him to tinker with. No tinkering equals an idle mind, and he eventually began to reflect on his current circumstances, something that he would usually try to actively avoid. He disliked dwelling. After all, he never did have the nicest thoughts in that radiation-tinged brain of his. 

_Stupid. You stupid idiot. What the fuck is wrong with you._

Point proven.

 _"Guess you could say that you're..._ the apple of my eye _."_

_Really, Fawkes? Really? You ain't a bloody Casanova! You can't just say that kind of shit. Especially not to a guy who's hand could wrap around your entire torso and snap you in half like a damn twig. Are you asking to get bludgeoned to death with the barrel of his scrap gun? Gutted with his hook? Hacked into pieces by his machete?_

_No. Absolutely not. If you're gonna die, it's gonna be loud and quick and fiery. Out with a bang. That was always the plan._

He took a sharp breath and ran a hand over his face, fighting the urge to scream in frustration.

_Fuckin' dumbass. For once in your goddamn life just...think before you speak._

Maybe he was being too harsh on himself. In his defence, the joke had been right there! Eye, apple, and all. He could never pass up the opportunity to tell a good pun. It was almost second nature to him.

The aforementioned pun just happened to be a little more on the, um, well, romantic side. An unintentional addition to his collection of pig jokes and other purposely cringe-worthy content. 

It was a damn good thing he stopped himself before spewing out the second half; the part that would have definitely earned him a negative response from the bodyguard. He hated to think what would've happened if he  _did_  actually run his damn mouth again. 

Best case scenario, Roadhog would've scoffed and rolled over to face the other direction. 

Worst case scenario, Roadhog would've had enough of his shit and tossed him over the canyon. 

Thankfully, Junkrat had stopped himself, and the night was able to progress without any awkward vibes lingering in the frigid air. Wouldn't want a repeat of Karaoke Night, that's for sure.  _Christ_ , he thought,  _never again. Don't want the piggy bastard to up and leave because I'm a fruit loop who can't keep his maw shut._

He shook his head, letting out a deep sigh and running his fingers through patches of hair. This self-pity shit was ruining his mood. He was having none of that now. 

Right. On to business. It was morning. 

Show time.

Junkrat got up and stretched, relishing in the feeling of popping joints and the cracking of bones. Sitting for long periods of time really didn't help his posture. He normally couldn't keep still for more than five minutes, but when it came to bombs it was a whole other story. Could probably go for hours just hunched over and tinkering away at his beloved explosives. Maybe even days. He shook his head again. 

_Focus._

He hobbled closer to the sleeping man, watching the steady rise and fall of Roadhog's gut. A loud rumble sounded from his stomach. Right, he should probably eat now. Good idea. He rummaged through his bag and tore into another pack of jerky. 

Junkrat paused, remembering that he usually ate breakfast with his piggy companion, but Roadhog was still soundly asleep. Would it be a good idea to wake him? Hmmm...

Meh, worth a shot. There was a first time for everything. The sooner Roadhog woke up, the sooner they could eat, the sooner they could leave, and the sooner they could get this convoluted scheme over with. 

Standing beside the tip of a silver ponytail, Junkrat leaned forward, casting a long shadow across Roadhog's face and chest. "Psssst, 'Hog. Rise and shine." He waved a hand over the mask's lenses. Poked at the rubber snout. Prodded at the filters.

Nothing. 

Verbally, at least. No response from the big lug. 

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!" Junkrat chirped, still waving his hand over Roadhog's face. There was a blur in his peripheral vision. Before he could react, a large hand shot up and closed around his forearm. Didn't squeeze, but definitely held him in place. 

Panicked, he tried to wriggle free from Roadhog's grasp. The pig gripped him like a vice and his arm was out of commission no matter how much he pulled. "Mate, what the hell? Let go!" 

He didn't let go. Instead, the bodyguard sat up, pulling Junkrat with him, and he flew over Roadhog's shoulder before landing on the sand arse first "Oof!". The wind was knocked out of him upon impact. Stunned and disoriented, Junkrat laid sprawled out on the ground, surrounded by a cloud of dust. He blinked a couple of times, watching the world spin, and waved away the stars that twinkled across his vision.

Roadhog looked down at him, "Oh," he tilted his head, "It's just you." 

 _You son of a-_  Junkrat hastily sat up, hissing as he rubbed his tailbone. He glared daggers at the pig before winding back his fist and punching him square in the gut. "Oi! What's your damn problem?!" 

The hit didn't seem to affect Roadhog, being the brick wall that he was. He scratched his tattoo instead of retaliating. "Shouldn't startle someone like that," he said plainly, deep voice laced with grogginess. 

Roadhog startled? Pshh. That's unheard of. A sad excuse. Junkrat scoffed and pushed himself up to a crouching position, "Remind me to never give you another wake up call." 

"Should've let me wake up by myself in the first place." 

Junkrat swore under his breath and shoved the other man's broad shoulder, "Pig bastard. Last time I try to get us to eat together." 

Roadhog snorted and shook his head. He stood up and lumbered over to the bike to retrieve his bag, "Let's eat then." 

Junkrat visibly perked up at that. He tried to suppress the grin that threatened to show on his face when Roadhog offered him another apple. He was still mad about being tossed around like a rag doll, but he took the fruit anyway and considered it an apology. 

They ate breakfast in one-sided silence. Roadhog was never much of a conversationalist to begin with.  That didn't stop Junkrat from trying though. He chattered about various topics in between mouthfuls of apple and jerky. Roadhog gave the occasional nod to show that he was still listening. That small gesture made Junkrat beam. 

In all honesty, Junkrat would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the big lug's company. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember a time when another person sat through a full-on conversation with him, much less multiple verbal exchanges. Sure, the pig would often respond in only grunts and affirmative noises, and sometimes he'd snap after listening to a particularly long rambling session and tell him to "Shut up, 'Rat. It's three in the goddamn morning." Roadhog certainly was a grumpy old codger, but his mere presence was, well, reassuring. In a strange sort of way. Didn't matter if he responded in words or not at all. 

After crumpling the empty bag and stuffing it into his pocket, Junkrat stood up, stretched, and started pacing around their campsite in anticipation. Today was the day. After a few rather eventful weeks, he was finally returning home. With Roadhog by his side, he could finally give those damn Junkertowners a piece of his mind. 

He didn't know whether to be excited, livid, or terrified. 

He settled for all three.

"You're doing it again." 

Junkrat stopped in his tracks. He looked up to find the pig staring at him. "Eh?" 

"Pacing," Roadhog said, "Nervously. You keep doing it." 

"Ain't nervous," A little horrified, maybe, but not nervous. Junkrat puffed up his chest in indignation, "Moving around helps me think. That's all." 

Roadhog tilted his head, "Sure." His tone was both slightly derisive and mildly...concerned? Nah. Couldn't be. 

Junkrat crossed his arms, suddenly getting defensive about his habits, "Roight. So if you may be so kind as to let me pace in peace, that would be appreciated." 

Roadhog shook his head again and waved him off. He gathered up his bed roll and stood to organize the bike compartment. A clear sign that they were leaving soon. 

To kill some time before departure, Junkrat peered into the canyon again, still pacing, and counted the dark stains dotting the already red sand. "One, two, three, four, five..." He muttered the rest under his breath, and came to the same number as yesterday. None of his traps were triggered overnight. Which didn't make his job much easier. Still sixteen possible places. "Dammit."

"You good?" Roadhog called out. The compartment closed with a resounding click. 

Junkrat spun around, "Yeah, yeah. Just thinking." He marched over to the bike, "We leaving yet?" 

Roadhog pointed at the diagram from the night before. Oh, right. Might wanna clean that up first.

After a few more last minute adjustments, and two more minutes scanning the layout, Junkrat gathered the tiny traps into his bag in one sweeping motion. Right. Now it was just a matter of applying the positions to a real life scale. Should be easy enough. He kicked the sand to get rid of his markings and turned around, eager to finally get a move on, only to walk straight into a massive gut. "Oi, watch it!" He scowled at Roadhog and placed a hand on his hip, "Ever heard of personal space?" 

Oh the irony. Roadhog rolled his hidden eyes and sighed. He used his glove to wipe off the soot smeared across his tattoo. "Just studying the layout." 

"Thought that was  _my_  job." Junkrat said, taking on a mock offended tone. He almost expected the pig to say,  _Your memory's shit. Guess I'll have to do look out myself._

Instead, Roadhog just shrugged. He placed a large hand on a bony shoulder, leading Junkrat back to the bike. "C'mon." 

"Ready to leave?" 

He nodded.

"Finally! Was getting real antsy there." 

"I can tell." 

"Whatever, mate," Junkrat grinned and nudged his gut before bounding ahead. He clambered onto the bike's warm leather seat, whistling a tune and beckoning for the other man to hurry up. "Ugh, you move about as fast as a corpse. C'mon 'Hoggo! Let's go!" 

The big bastard made sure to take his sweet time getting to the vehicle, despite his charge's urging. "You seem keen on going back." 

The corners of Junkrat's mouth twitched, "Well, I mean-" he sputtered a bit. Waved his hand in the air, "I suppose there's no use in prolonging the inevitable, roight?"

They stared each other down for a few seconds, arms crossed, face and mask neutral. 

"Alright," Roadhog finally said. He swung a leg over the seat, and the bike's frame lowered as he settled in. "We make one more stop about halfway. Then floor it for the rest." 

"Sounds good." Junkrat scooted forward, letting Roadhog adjust to the awkward seating arrangement. He slid back in place once two boulder-sized hands gripped the handle bars. The familiar roar of the engine cut through the air, sending a rumbling wave through Junkrat's chest and Roadhog's gut. Soon, the pair sped off, leaving a trail of dust and shrill laughter in their wake. 

Again, the Outback's scenery wasn't anything impressive. Sand, more sand, the sporadic patch of dead bush, the sheer drop of the canyon alongside the road, more sand, some scrap heaps in the distance, more sand, even more sand, wait! Oh, nevermind, just more sand. 

Junkrat sighed, tapping on his leg absentmindedly. This was going to be a long five hours. 

Junkrat leaned into his backrest (a.k.a. Roadhog), relaxing when the other man didn't grumble or protest at the physical contact. He let out a long yawn and closed his eyes. Might as well catch some z's while he was at it. No sense in spending the rest of the trip bored out of his mind. Eventually, he fell asleep to Roadhog's wheezy breathing and to the rhythmic motions of his gut.

The absence of wind whipping across his face jolted Junkrat from his short-lived nap. When he cracked open his eyes, he was squinting up at the polluted sky, and lying down on something much firmer than Roadhog's stomach. The seat's leather hide wasn't nearly as comfortable, in his opinion, but he wasn't going to voice that fact. He'd rather  _not_  get punched in the neck today.

Speaking of possibly getting punched in the neck, where the hell was Roadhog?

Junkrat sat up and scanned the area. Looks like pigface drove off the road and parked a good fifty paces away from the canyon. 

His heart sank a little. The surrounding rock formations, the gnarled bush, and the burnt ruins were too recognizable for his liking. He had a piece of crap memory, yes, but he could recognize a Junker landmark when he saw one. 

Merely a few steps away from the bike stood the husk of a petrol station, battered by years of weather exposure and picked apart by Junkers. The place had mostly burnt down years ago in the Omnium explosion. All that remained was the lower half of the building's rusted frame and a busted neon sign half-buried in the sand.

Junkrat was here before. Weeks ago if he remembered correctly. When this whole mess was just getting started. 

Something about this place made his head hurt. A sharp prodding in his brain. He's felt this countless times before; a subconscious reminder to remember.

Remember what? He didn't know. Junkrat groaned and rubbed the puncture wounds on the back of his head. He didn't know what to remember.

The bike was parked in front of a boulder, and his eyes soon landed on the tip of a silver ponytail. It stuck out from the top of the stone, barely visible but definitely unmistakable. He pushed away the pain, snickering upon hearing the buzz of a zipper and a faint hiss. "Nature calls, ey 'Hog?" 

Even with a boulder situated between them, Junkrat could practically sense Roadhog rolling his eyes. He cackled, winced a little at the jostling of his head, and slipped off the seat to pace around the bike. This was their last stop, he realized. They were already halfway to their destination. 

_Well ain't that just fan-bloody-tastic._

Another thing he realized; he's really gotta piss. 

Fortunately, there was that zipper again, and the pig soon emerged from behind the impromptu dunny, or loo as some folks called it. He jabbed a large thumb at the rock. "It's all yours." 

"Stellar. Be roight back." Junkrat whistled as he sauntered towards the other side of the boulder. He chose an area that didn't smell too much like urine and let the, heh, rivers flow. He breathed a sigh of relief, and his ears perked up at the sound of rattling chains and heavy footsteps. Seems like pigface was searching the area. "Ain't gonna find nothing here, mate. Place burned to the ground ages ago." 

"Not scrapping," was the gruff reply from behind the rock, "Hurry up." 

"Quit rushing me!" Junkrat barked, "The folks back home wouldn't mind if we were a couple minutes late."

"Hm."

"Don't you 'Hm' me." 

"Hm!"

Junkrat frowned. That last "hm" had a lot more emotion to it than usual. "What's wrong? Found something 'Hog?" He craned his neck in an attempt to peer over the stone, but to no avail. If only this damn boulder wasn't in the way, then he could see.

More footsteps and rattling chains, louder and deliberate this time. The throbbing in his head returned, and he hissed at the pain while pulling his pants and zipper back up. "Hog?" 

Nothing.

"Hoggo?" 

...

"Roadie?" 

_Snap!_

Junkrat froze. The sound was sudden, resonating, and terribly familiar. It was followed by a long, horrid creak that rang in his ears. So, so familiar. 

_Oh my god._

He was here before. Weeks ago. While he was en route to his escape. Needed to stop them from chasing him somehow. 

_I'm a bleedin' idiot._

The pounding in his head ceased. He remembered now. He'd forgotten about one. He'd forgotten and he remembered too late.

_No, no, no._

A trap.

_Roadhog._

Junkrat broke into a hobbling sprint. He skirted around the rock and headed towards his bodyguard's side. His heart was racing and he was running so fast he almost tripped. He could see his travel companion in the distance, surrounded by charred and rusted remains.

Roadhog was kneeling and hunched over at the mangled entrance of the gas station's ruins. He was quiet. He was quiet and he wasn't screaming in pain. Junkrat called out to him, shouted his name, asked him why the hell he wasn't responding. 

Nothing.

_My fault. This is my fault._

Roadhog wasn't screaming. He wasn't screaming and deep down Junkrat knew that something was wrong.


	16. Communication is Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> False alarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog's got a storm coming his way.

The quickly approaching mismatched footsteps reached Roadhog's ears before the incoherent yelling did. He huffed out a sigh and brushed the sand from his overalls. 

The twitchy fool was babbling and running towards him by the sound of it. Roadhog briefly glanced over his shoulder armour, wondering what the  _hell_ had gotten Junkrat so worked up, and almost chuckled at the sight of his panicking employer.

Almost. 

Frankly, he was too tired to give any sort of reaction. 

A metal peg leg scraped against sand and debris as Junkrat drew closer, spindly arms flailing, shrill voice and laboured breathing echoing through the desolate wasteland. There was a feral look in his eyes. A genuine fear stricken across his gaunt face. 

Minutes. It had only been mere minutes since he left Junkrat alone to do his business behind the boulder. Roadhog sighed again. What could have  _possibly_ happened in such a short amount of time? 

He shrugged and turned away, resuming to the previous task at hand. There was no one around besides them and the Junkertowners at the bottom of the canyon. He made sure of that. So he wasn't too troubled by Junkrat's antics. An animal probably just freaked him out, or something like that. Although some mutated desert beast was certainly the least of his problems. Speaking from past experiences on both of their behalfs, it was the people and the ever increasing bounty on his flaming head that Junkrat should really be worried about. 

Anyways, he would get to the entrance of the gas station soon enough, or preferably calm the hell down. Whichever came first.

As the distance between them lessened, Roadhog could finally decipher some of the phrases spewing out of Junkrat's mouth. Half of it was nonsense. The other half was just the idiot shouting Roadhog's alias and asking concerned-filled questions that seemed to overlap each other. Roadhog couldn't quite catch the warbled words, so he didn't bother to respond. Also, not to be rude or anything, but he was sort of busy at the moment. 

Now, there was no denying that Roadhog was a strong guy. The strongest Junker in all of Australia, as others have told him. As sturdy as a brick house. Hell, he could probably uproot a brick house from its foundation if he really set his mind to it. 

With that said, he pried open the trap with his bare hands, just enough to free the squirming body that managed to get snagged in the makeshift weapon. After he avoided getting his fingers caught before the teeth snapped shut, he put the trap down and began to inspect the body for any injuries.

He metaphorically patted himself on the back. This was his good deed for the day, er the month, maybe the year. Opportunities to help others didn't come very often for guys like him. Not that he was actively searching for chances to be a Good Samaritan, that is.

However, the fact remains; Roadhog was a strong guy. An unstoppable, unmovable force. 

So it would be an understatement to say that he was surprised when Junkrat, who was all skin and bones, tackled him to the ground. 

Scratch that previous statement; Roadhog was an unstoppable,  _movable_  force. 

The sheer speed of Junkrat's wiry body was enough to knock him over upon impact. They both fell and were now sprawled across the sand, with Junkrat scrambling over Roadhog's stomach. Bony elbows and knees dug into his tattooed skin. Roadhog opened his eyes and growled, fully prepared to grab the skinny idiot and toss him off, but unexpectedly peered into a wide, bloodshot, manic gaze. 

The owner of said gaze blinked repeatedly before the situation finally registered in that frazzled brain of his. 

"Shit, shit, shit." Junkrat rolled off his massive gut and landed unceremoniously on the ground. He shot up and knelt by Roadhog's side, knobby fingers gripping his vest. "Tripped on the peg, mate." He nervously explained. Junkrat didn't give Roadhog any time to react when his hand and stump quickly went to work. Trembling fingers moved from the vest and down to a broad shoulder, then bicep, forearm, stomach, and leg. His motions across the bigger body were fleeting and urgent, like he was looking for something. Frantically and desperately. 

Roadhog could only stare up at him. He was still slightly stunned from the fall, increasingly growing annoyed, grudgingly impressed at Junkrat's apparent strength, and most of all, blatantly confused. All the while, orange eyes examined Roadhog's body, making him feel like a patient strapped to an operating table. He had to admit that it was strange to be under such a scrutinizing and worried gaze. No one had looked at him like that in years. Decades, even. It was a little unsettling.

The sand on his back, neck, and arms was sizzling hot, practically frying his exposed skin. He supposed he should sit up. An easy task if the scrawny maniac wasn't pinning his arm and chest down.

Before Roadhog could reach out to push the twitchy idiot away, Junkrat scurried to the other side and repeated the examination process. "Where-?" Nimble fingers ghosted across Roadhog's other arm and leg. Seemingly unsatisfied with his findings, Junkrat gritted his teeth and let out frustrated noise, " _Where is it?!_ "

Yup, the suspicions were correct; he was definitely looking for something. 

Roadhog propped himself up with his elbows, grunting as he got into a sitting position. He glared at the rat, who was too busy fretting over him to notice the icy stare of the gas mask. "What the hell are you doing?" He demanded with no short of irritation. Whatever the little shit was looking for, he didn't have it on him. Roadhog had half a mind to strangle him for making such out-of-the-blue accusations.

The assumption that Junkrat  _made_  assumptions was soon proven wrong the longer Roadhog observed him. Junkrat didn't seem angry nor did he seem hostile.  _Upset_  was the better word to describe the smaller man's current emotional state. 

Junkrat pulled his hair, completely beside himself, "Where is it?" He repeated, more insistently this time.

"Where's  _what_?" Roadhog asked through gritted teeth.

"The blood! The wounds! The bite marks!" Junkrat waved his one hand in the air, gesturing wildly, as if  _that_  would shed any light on the situation.

Roadhog tilted his head.  _What the_ hell _is he talking about?_ Junkrat didn't make much sense to begin with, but now this was just plain ridiculous. "...What?" 

"I don't-I can't-" Junkrat was staring right at him, still rambling incoherently and looking just as confused as he was. 

Confusion mixed with aggravation. Roadhog resisted the urge to hit him upside his blonde head. 

"Can't find it," Junkrat muttered while frantically searching his own pockets. There was a glazed but focused look in his eyes. "I can't find it. Show me where it is, 'Hog. Need to-" He pulled out a roll of bandages, similar to the wrappings around his right leg. "Need to fix it, mate. Let me fix it." 

"Uh," Okay, so  _something_  was affecting Junkrat's state of mind, Roadhog confirmed. Perhaps it was the morning heat, or dehydration, or just plain madness that resulted from years of radiation exposure. Whatever it was made the fool talk nonsense. 

"Hog, c'mon I  _need_  to  _fix_  it show me  _where_ -"

Large hands gripped Junkrat's shoulders, and Roadhog felt every bone in his lanky body lock up, "Rat." He shook him a little, hoping to snap his employer out of it. "Calm down. Nothing's wrong." 

" _Don't_  tell me to  _calm down_!" he growled while trying to pry Roadhog's fingers off. "I heard it! The snap, the creak, then I saw you doubled over and ran all the way here! I thought you got-" He paused and bit the inside of his cheek. Anger and confusion seemed to leave the skinny man, leaving him deflated and sheepish. Upon seeing the change of emotion, Roadhog's grip on his shoulders loosened. Junkrat jumped to his feet and cautiously took a few steps back, still scanning the bodyguard over. "I thought you got caught..."

_Caught? Caught..._

That was when it finally clicked.

 _Oh,_ Roadhog realized _._ So _that's_  what this was all about.

"Rat, I'm fine," Roadhog reassured him. He patted himself down, pretending to search for any injuries, and spread his arms out, "See? Completely fine."

"But-" Junkrat blinked, grasping his stump so hard that nails dug into the scarred skin, "Where is it? If it ain't on you then-"

A broad finger pointed to the gas station's entrance, effectively cutting Junkrat off from asking any more questions. He scowled, staring Roadhog down with narrowed eyes, before reluctantly turning around to follow the silent instruction. 

Greeting the distressed Junker was the vacant stare of two metal bolts, a jagged grin, and a band of bright yellow. 

"Oh," Junkrat managed to croak out. The sight left him, to Roadhog's surprise, mostly speechless. 

His trap sat innocently enough in the sand. Completely inactive and still. The razor sharp teeth were snapped shut, indicating that it was previously triggered like he correctly assumed. Junkrat's gaze darted back and forth, from the bodyguard to the inanimate culprit. "Okay," he sighed, eventually letting out the breath he'd been holding. "Good." 

Roadhog was unharmed. He was okay.

Everything was fine. 

Well, as fine as it could be in a scorching desert wasteland. 

Junkrat visibly relaxed. Tense shoulders unwinded, the grip on his stump loosened up, and his posture got a little bit straighter. At least he didn't look like he was curling in on himself anymore.

Movement in his peripheral vision caught Junkrat's attention. Bushy eyebrows furrowed, and the state of contentment didn't last long. "Wait." 

Roadhog huffed. Without Junkrat hovering over him, now would be a good time to get up. After standing to his full towering height, he watched the other man with a stern face and his arms crossed.

Circling the area, Junkrat investigated the scene before them. The trap was there, yes, sitting haphazardly on a heap of sand. But what he didn't notice before was the trembling body of an injured goanna just a few feet away. 

A small gasp escaped him. Junkrat's gaze trailed down the long, scaly body, starting from its head, eventually stopping at the stump where a tail should be. "Oh." 

Roadhog remembered their last encounter with the species of lizard, back at the inn, and apparently so did Junkrat (even with his terrible memory). The look on the blond's face was a mix of unease, satisfaction, and uncertainty. Corners of chapped lips twitched back and forth from an upturned smile to a downturned grimace. He slowly turned to Roadhog, keeping the latter as the dominant emotion. "Didn't get roughed up too bad, did it?

Roadhog shook his head. He made his way towards Junkrat. The shorter Junker picked up his trap, held it to his side, and both of them leaned over the poor animal, shielding it from the heat of the sun.

The period of pondering silence was brief. As expected, Junkrat was the first to speak up. "Where'd the tail go?" 

Huh, Roadhog wondered the same thing. The tail had been previously attached to the lizard when he pried open the trap to free it. He shrugged, "Probably dropped it." 

Junkrat frowned, "The fuck does that mean?"

"Tail got caught. Maybe thought the trap was a predator," Roadhog tapped into his inner student and tried to recall the stuff he'd learned in biology class many years ago. Practically ancient history. "Lizards can drop their tails when threatened." He glanced over at Junkrat before quickly bringing his gaze back to the animal. He tried to ignore the way the smaller man stared at his own stump with a grim expression.

"Hmmm," Junkrat shook his head, tearing his eyes from his missing appendage, and considered the newfound information, "So it kinda just...detached?" 

"Yeah." 

"Anything we can do?" 

"Not much. Gotta let it recuperate. Can't interfere." 

"If you say so." 

Brief quiet followed their chatter. The goanna hissed and crawled away, out of the shade and into the vast expanse of desert. Tails were crucial for balance, and the absence of one caused the little thing to adopt an uneven gait. Despite being hardened and vicious Junkers by nature, there was no denying that they felt bad for it. 

Junkrat cleared his throat. "So where is it now?" 

"Where's what?"

"The tail." 

"Wriggled around for a bit. Probably buried in the sand." 

"Will it grow back?" 

"Hope so." 

"...Okay."

Silence befell the two again. They watched the goanna as it slowly but surely made its way over a sand dune. After a few more minutes and many unbalanced steps, it made it to the top, turned around to flick its tongue at them, and disappeared down the other side. 

Junkrat made shooing motions with his hand, "Go on, little thing." He sniffed, pretending to wipe a non-existent tear off his face, "Be free." 

Roadhog snorted.  _Idiot._

They stood there for a few more moments, listening to the crunching of sand under little clawed feet, until the goanna couldn't be heard or seen anymore. 

Roadhog sighed, noticing the souring look on the other man's face. "C'mon." He placed a hand on a bony shoulder, but Junkrat shrugged it off and began walking away at a brisk pace. Roadhog shook his head and followed suit, trailing behind him.

Alright then. Fine.

The walk back to the bike was quiet. Absent of the usual rambling and chit-chat. Roadhog kept his gaze forward, scanning the horizon, until the back of Junkrat's head caught his eye. He stared at the puncture wounds dotted between patches of burning blond hair. The memory of the night they met resurfaced, and he vaguely recalled a nail bat lying on the dirt next to the piled up corpses in the fire pit. His gaze travelled down to the rat's back, noticing old scars, uneven tan lines, and the way his muscles tensed under dirty skin-

Junkrat stopped walking, which in turn made Roadhog pause just few feet away from him. The smaller man drew in a deep, shaky breath, tightened his grip around the trap's creaking metal, and dug his peg into the sand. Standing up just a little bit straighter, he spun around, and glared into opaque lenses with an intensity that burned into hidden brown eyes.

Roadhog didn't appreciate that look.

"Drongo." Junkrat hissed. 

He blinked, slightly taken aback at the outburst. "What-?" 

"Drongo!" Junkrat stomped towards him. "Bloody heifer. I thought you got  _hurt_! Turns out it was only a damn  _lizard_!" The shrillness of his voice cut through the air, resonating across the wasteland and in Roadhog's ears.

Behind the mask, eyebrows furrowed in genuine bewilderment. That confirmed why Junkrat was so worked up earlier.

"Look," he continued, "I know you're not much of a talker, but can you do a bloke a favour and actually, oh, I don't know,  _respond_  when he bloody calls you?"

Roadhog huffed, clenching and unclenching his fists, "Kinda busy at the moment." 

"You could've informed a guy, mate! Ain't that hard to shout back 'Nah I'm okay 'Rat. Just helping this poor, unsuspecting, lizard out of your shitty trap'." 

"It's not shitty-" For something that was cobbled together from scrap metal, it was actually pretty well made-

"That's  _not_  the point, Roadhog!"

"Then what  _is_  the point?" He said through gritted teeth. The conversation was getting old real fast. All he wanted was to be back on the road again. Get this damn plan over and done with. Once again, Roadhog's patience was wearing dangerously thin.

Meanwhile, Junkrat was absolutely fuming. He took a few steps closer. A massive hand was held up to maintain the space between them, but Junkrat swatted it away and got right up in the bodyguard's face. "The  _point_ , you big bastard, is that we gotta learn how to communicate if we wanna make  _this_ ," he spread his arms and made a grand gesture at the surrounding area, "work for the both of us." 

A greying eyebrow shot up, nearly reaching Roadhog's hairline. "...This?" What did he mean by  _this_?

"You know what I mean, 'Hog.  _This_. The deal. Fifty-fifty. Everything that led up to this point. Us!" 

... _Us_? 

Roadhog shifted uncomfortably and took a step back. Christ, what the hell was happening? 

Junkrat seemed to sense the bigger man's unease. The furious fire in his eyes fizzled out, leaving behind the usual orange, though there was a dullness to them this time. "I...just..." His scowl dropped, replaced by a look that fell between weariness and anxiousness. "Just...forget it. Forget it."

A deep, sinking feeling settled in the pit of Roadhog's stomach. "Rat-"

"No, no. Forget I said anything." He took another deep, shaky breath, and contorted to his usual hunched posture. Without uttering another word, Junkrat turned around and started hobbling towards the bike. The bright yellow hunk of well-kept metal was a good distance away from where they were. 

He hated to admit it, but Junkrat did have to run awfully far...

Roadhog blinked. For a few moments, he stood there, too fazed to even move. Despite himself, behind the opaque lenses, brown eyes stared at the puncture wounds and bald patches and tan lines and back muscles, until Junkrat was too far away for him to discern those features. Until he was just a yellow, green, sooty blur that stuck out against the expanse of red earth and metal. Roadhog sighed, tried to regain his sanity, especially after that whole conversation, and willed himself to follow. He lumbered beside the trail that Junkrat left behind.

Footprints. Two kinds. One imprinted in the sand by a peg leg, and the other by a boot much smaller than his own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmmm this chapter should have been posted sooner but Grade 12 is wild and really kicking my ass. Sorry for the long wait (and also for the mini plot twist I know a lot of you were worried about 'Hog and I apologize for that cliffhanger :'| ). Thank you so much for reading and commenting and kudos-ing! I know I say this a lot but I really appreciate it and I'm so grateful that you guys are still sticking with me and this story. Have an awesome week everyone!!! I'll try to reply to comments as soon as possible, but I'll most likely get to them on the weekend.


	17. Home Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot on Junkrat's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh oh I remember now.  
> Too far below to turn around.  
> Too bright a light to let go now.  
> Take me back, my friend.  
> Take me back on home.
> 
> -Take Me Back (Kongos, 2012)

The walk back was strained, to say the least.

Junkrat trudged over a small mound of sand, physically moving at a turtle's pace, but mentally moving at about a hundred miles an hour. There was too much going on inside that scatterbrained head of his. Fleeting thoughts flashed behind his eyes, running wild, like a hamster running on a wheel in a never-ending cycle. In this case, he was the poor hamster, exhausted by the bombardment of self-depreciating thoughts in his currently brooding state. His mentality was the wheel, and the damn spinning was giving him a bloody headache. 

Tucking the trap into his underarm, Junkrat used his free hand to massage his temples, hissing and cursing at the feeling of pulsating skin. He needed to take his mind off things; take his mind off the pain, the intrusive thoughts, and the remorseful nervousness and anger festering in the cavity of his chest. 

 _Get to the bike_ , he thought _. Just get to the bike and quit making a damn fool of yourself._

Shooting one quick glance over his shoulder, Junkrat saw that the pig was still quite a ways behind him. Roadhog was following, to his relief, although he wasn't within ear-shot. Slow bastard was a whopping five small sand mounds away. Lumbering and imposing with a face that was indiscernible behind that damn gas mask. 

It drove him mad - well, madder - that he had no idea what the big lug looked like underneath the stitched leather. 

Every attempt at coaxing the second face off had been a complete bust, so he decided to drop the subject. For now at least. Roadhog couldn't  _possibly_  keep the thing on forever. Well, Junkrat hoped he couldn't. Geez, the big guy's gotta let his pores breathe at  _some_  point in time. 

Still, the mere fact of notknowing and having to wait it out made his jaw lock up. 

Since his face was obscured, Junkrat could only imagine the kind of look Roadhog was giving him back there. Back when he was getting sentimental and riled up in all the wrong ways. Surely Junkrat couldn't see his expression, not with the mask in the way, but the pig was probably staring at him like he spontaneously combusted right before his eyes. Hell, he even stepped back, ready to run in the other direction. 

Junkrat let out a deep sigh.  _Goddamn it._

Now the tubby bastard knew just how concerned he was about him. How much he actually gave a flying  _shit_  about his bodyguard. It made his malnourished stomach lurch and cave in on itself even more. 

He wasn't supposed to  _care_. 

He just wasn't. The concept was completely unheard of these days. For as long as he could remember, Junkers didn't genuinely care about each other. Never had, and probably never will. There was always some other purpose. There was always another motive. The ever present risk of deception. The extreme likelihood of getting stabbed in the back, both figuratively and literally. 

 _Survival of the fittest,_ they always said.  _Every Junker for themselves._

The way things were was simple. Junkers _weren't supposed to care._  

They sure as hell weren't supposed to care about  _each other._

It was easier that way. Easier for him to remove the emotional connection altogether. When the people around him dropped dead from radiation or starvation or a stab to the chest or a bullet to the head, it hurt way less if he didn't give a damn in the first place. Didn't hurt at all, actually. Not at all.

Junkrat had never been gladder to come face to headlight with the monstrous vehicle. He walked around the side of the bike and sat down, treating it as an improvised barrier between him and the pig. 

_Maybe, just maybe, if I don't move, he won't find me here._

Being in the shadow of Roadhog's hog was somewhat comforting. The shade provided a bit of relief from the heat of the sun. Junkrat leaned against the gas tank, not caring that the metal casting burned his skin, and inhaled the strong sent of petrol. He willed himself to calm down, to slow down his heart rate, to relax. 

_Relax. Just reeelax._

His body soon caught up with his mind, and he slumped against the tank even more, nearly tipping the bike over. 

Unfortunately, the anxious twinge in his chest, the dryness in his mouth, and the jumbled thoughts running rampant didn't go away despite his efforts. Not to mention the nagging. That damn nagging feeling at the back of his head returned, stronger than ever, slowly clawing its way through.

There was no way for him to explain the range of emotions he felt earlier. He had no idea why he even bothered to rush over and help the big lug. No. Goddamn. Clue.

Perhaps it was due to his own self preservation. For any of his plans to work, both of them needed to be alive to carry them out. If the huge bastard had actually gotten caught and bled out and died, then he'd be stranded in the desert, left behind to aimlessly roam along the boundaries of Junkertown. He could try to drive the pig's bike and get to Sydney himself, but petrol was expensive and steering would be a pain in the ass. He'd have to scour the land for scrap and pieces that he could use to make a replacement arm first. Then making the arm with only one hand was another issue altogether. Their food supplies combined could probably last him another month or so. But he wouldn't get far without a vehicle, or protection for that matter. 

It was merely pure luck that the biggest, baddest, most famed Enforcer on this side of Oz found him instead of the other way around. A top candidate for the job, not to mention Junkrat's number one choice. That chance encounter saved him a hell of a lot of trouble and effort on his part. Roadhog had waltzed into his life, and he wasn't about to let the big bastard walk away. 

Without Roadhog, he would be easier pickings for any gangs, bounty hunters, and mercenaries that he crossed paths with (he wouldn't go down without a fight, that's for sure, though he really needed to hoard up on bombs). Without Roadhog, he'd eventually be found and dragged back to that awful Junker shithole, have the information tortured out of him, and be offed in whatever way his captors saw fit. He'd almost rather die of starvation or dehydration. Hell, being mauled to death by dingoes sounded like a more pleasant way to go. 

_Lovely._

Junkrat curled up into a tight ball, mentally chastising himself for his overthinking. He definitely could've handled the previous situation a lot better. Way better. In a way that didn't make him look like a complete idiot, and in a way that didn't make Roadhog want to back out from the deal and run for the sand dunes. At the rate he was trailing behind, maybe he already turned around and sped off like he wanted to.

No. That wasn't right. He wouldn't leave his precious motorcycle. Why he was taking so long to catch up to him, Junkrat didn't know. 

_Where the hell is that heifer?_

He was almost tempted to peer through the spokes of the front wheel and look for any signs of the pig. Instead, he remained still and quiet, pressing himself as close to the bike as possible. The plodding of big feet across sand and rock was the only indication that Roadhog was still nearby. 

 _Whatever_ , Junkrat scoffed. He shouldn't be worrying about Roadhog to begin with. He'd get back eventually. All he needed to do was wait here until he did. Just him, his trap, and the bike between them. Once he was back, then they could leave.

_God, I can't even get anywhere without the pig having to drive me around. Damn it. Fuckin' pathetic. Fuckin'-_

A squeak of frustration left him before he could stop it.

Useless. 

He couldn't ignore the relentless feeling of uselessness burrowing through him. It made his chest heavy and his headache worse. He leaned back into the gas tank, his neck sizzling upon contact with the scorching hot metal. He dug his hand into the sand, raking through it with his remaining fingers and focusing on its grainy texture. He wanted - no, needed - to feel something else. Anything else besides feeling useless. 

His skin blistered, the metal-on-flesh contact slowly cooking him under the ever-present heat of the Outback sun.

God, he hated this. Hated everything. The trouble brought by the treasure. The Junkertowners that betrayed him. The people that took his right limbs. Junkertown itself. Being constantly hunted down. Being on the run. This entire God forsaken wasteland. He hated all of it. 

Though, for the life of him, he couldn't bring himself to hate Roadhog. No matter how pissed off he was, he just couldn't. 

Junkrat took a deep, shuddering breath, and leaned forward to relive himself of the pain. The smell of cooked flesh wafted through the air. Familiar, though slightly unnerving due to it being his own skin burning for once. 

That tubby bastard was the one good thing to come out from all of this. The only good thing in his life right now, actually.

It was infinitely reassuring to have the Outback's very own legend as his bodyguard.  _His_ very ownbodyguard (unbelievable, right?).Having a massive brick wall of muscle and fat standing by your side would make just about anybody feel damn well powerful. Untouchable. Indestructible. 

_Invincible._

Roadhog made him feel, among other things, invincible. 

Which was completely utterly unheard of for a man of his status. He wasn't exactly high up on the social ladder back in Junkertown. In fact, he had to rough it out with the lowest of the low. But travelling with the pig for the past couple of days made him drunk with power. Made him more at ease. Made him more sure of himself. 

Roadhog made him feel a lot of things. Things he wasn't supposed to feel.

Junkrat shook his head violently, jolting himself from his daydream.  _Stop_ , he thought sternly,  _Cut that shit out. Quit thinking about him._

He lasted mere seconds before his mind drifted off again. Suppressed thoughts of his bodyguard came flooding back and he internally hissed curses at himself. He's tried to push back his feelings for awhile now, and he was torn between just facing the music or pretending they didn't exist. Guess he didn't need to make that decision after all. 

Travelling with Roadhog, fighting Junkers with Roadhog, hell, even just  _being_ with Roadhog made his life a little less bleak. A little less boring. Roadhog brought excitement and thrill to his otherwise repetitive and back-breaking schedule. 

Junkrat still hadn't forgotten about the fight at the inn. Now  _that_  had been fun. The most fun he's had in years. He could recall the splitting of bullet ridden walls. The sting of chemicals on his fingers. The screams of invading Junkers as the scrap gun littered its victims with metal and glass and wood. The pig's booming laugh as their numbers dwindled.

God, Junkrat liked that laugh. The way it rumbled through the inn and earth. The way it shook Roadhog's shoulders in pure unhinged glee. The way it reverberated in his own bony chest and made his protruding spine tingle. As if a jolt of electricity had shocked him to the point of no return. He would give his entire food supply to the pig if it meant he could hear him laugh again. 

Junkrat growled and gripped his hair. 

_What the fuck are you saying? That's stupid. You're being stupid. You'd go hungry again you bleedin' drongo._

Stupid. Foolish. Harebrained. 

Dangerous. 

That's what these thoughts were. Very, very dangerous. 

The pig's heavy footsteps were closer now, approaching the bike slowly. Wheezy breathing and the crunching of sand beneath heavy boots made the patchy hairs at the back of his neck stand up. 

"Rat." 

That voice never failed to send shivers down his spine. Roadhog's tone was unusually soft yet stern. Always booming. Always on his frazzled mind. Effortless. It chilled Junkrat's very core. 

_If I sit really still, maybe he won't-_

"Rat." 

_-Find me._

"Junkrat." 

The blond sighed. Fine. It was probably best to respond. No sense in hiding when there was no game in the first place. The pig knew he couldn't get far. He stuck his hand up from behind the vehicle and waved. "I'm here." 

"I know." 

"Tch." 

"Rat."

Junkrat grit his teeth. While he couldn't bring himself to hate the heifer, he could find it in himself to still be pissed off. "What the hell do you want?" 

It felt like forever until he got a response. The shadow casted by the bike grew longer as Roadhog stepped forward. "It's time," he said. 

Junkrat rolled his eyes. "For what?"

Seemingly another eternity passed before Roadhog said something. "The plan." 

His whole body went rigid. Right. Right. The plan. How could he forget? They discussed this already. It was their last pit stop before they arrived in town, after all. Only a few hours of travelling left to cover. This was the best time to make their supposed roles believable.

Still, Junkrat visibly tensed at the sound of a clinking chain unraveling from its spool. 

Roadhog walked around the bike to face him. The bodyguard's hulking form soon loomed over his own. Junkrat tore his gaze from the horizon to look up at the second face. 

It was at that exact moment that Junkrat felt absolutely puny. An ant compared to the mountain of a man. No other person has ever made him feel physically small. Tiny. Insignificant yet significant, all at once. If that even made any sense. To him it didn't. 

Sunlight bounced off the mask's opaque lenses, practically glaring at Junkrat with a menacing intensity. The pig's chain was taut, pulled outwards by massive hands, silently waiting for Junkrat to comply. 

Wide orange eyes darted back and forth, from the mask, to the glinting chain, to the sand dunes on the horizon, and back to the mask again. Roadhog noticed his hesitation, sighed, and offered him a hand, still keeping the chain curled in his fingers.

Pride and stubbornness got the best of him, so he didn't take up Roadhog's offer. Junkrat grudgingly pulled himself to his foot and peg. He swatted the large hand away and averted his stare. "Just get it over with."

The pig made a grumbling noise, but didn't say anything else. As instructed, he wrapped the chain around Junkrat's skinny frame, working with expert efficiency. He knew that Roadhog had done this before. So many times that he'd probably lost count. He bounded his hand and stump behind his back, tied his arms to his side, and looped the chain around his neck a few times for good measure.

 _Believable_ , Junkrat reminded himself, feeling his knees wobble slightly. They needed to make it believable. 

Roadhog hung his prized hook on the front of Junkrat's chest, further weighing him down. The finishing touch. Like a bow on a present.

That's what he was. Chained up and constricted. A present.

A gift to the Junkertown citizens that wanted him dead.


	18. Lend a Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ain't gonna be the first to cry  
> Even though you had the last laugh on me  
> You're just a link in my chain  
> Someone else will end this misery
> 
> -I Ain't Gonna Be the First to Cry (Bob Moses, 2014)

The rat thought about making a run for it. Roadhog could tell. 

Once they were face to face, Roadhog knew the other man's internal conflicts in an instant. One of the few skills he picked up over the years was reading people, and Junkrat was practically an open book when it came to his emotions. Both evocative and explosive.

Particularly his facial expressions. The way his eyes darted around, frantically searching for any sign of a possible escape, all wide and bug-eyed, confirmed Roadhog's stirring suspicions. 

The rat was seriously thinking of making a run for it. Straight for the sand dunes, no doubt. 

Hence why Roadhog wasn't going to unchain him. Not under any circumstances. 

Not until they stepped foot on Junkertown soil, at least. They'd made it this far already, and Roadhog was determined to see it through to the end. 

Whatever that end may be. 

He'd expected a more vigorous fight from his employer. Expected more punching, kicking, biting, scratching, name-calling, etcetera, etcetera. After all, Junkrat was more than just a tad iffy about the whole plan, considering his part in it. 

But what Roadhog didn't expect was for the other Junker to be so compliant. Besides the snappy remark -  _"Just get it over with"  -_ Junkrat was eerily silent, and twitchier than usual, as he was wrapped up in chains. 

The bodyguard especially didn't expect Junkrat's bout of concern earlier. Didn't expect the genuine fear and self-depreciating anger in his bright eyes while he examined his massive form for any bear-trap-related injuries. 

Almost as if he...

 _Shit,_ Roadhog sighed, not liking the realization.

...Almost as if he  _cared_. 

Ridiculous. 

The notion was practically a death sentence out here. 

Roadhog grimaced at the thought, and shook his head to bring himself back to the present. 

No matter. The more the other Junker cooperated, the easier this whole convoluted scheme would play out. Junkrat's stance on the situation definitely wasn't his damn problem. 

Also, as much as he dreaded the eventual confrontation, he would have to deal with Junkrat's apparent emotional attachment later. 

When the time was right. 

After swiftly putting his chain to its routine use, Roadhog settled onto the bike once more, huffing a relived sigh to finally be back on track again. 

It took Junkrat a little longer to take his spot since his entire upper half was almost completely immobile. Roadhog knew how heavy his chain was, and the added weight to the other man's skinny torso certainly wasn't helping his already terrible posture. As Junkrat struggled to swing his leg over the seat, spitting hushed curses all the while, Roadhog, without thinking, reached out to steady him before he could fall over. Broad fingers firmly grasped the chains across Junkrat's shoulders. The back of his hand brushed against goosebumps dotted across soot-covered skin.

As expected, Roadhog's effort to assist only earned him a shrill bark and the violent jerk of his chains. 

"Don't  _need_  your help," Junkrat snapped as he tried to twist away from the bodyguard's hold.

Roadhog huffed and promptly let go once his employer was settled down, grudgingly resisting the urge to pick him up and toss him off the bike. 

A trail of dust blew across the petrol station's ruined storefront as they tore though the sand and back onto the road again.

Their seating arrangement for the next half hour or so wasn't the least bit comfortable. If they found it difficult to fit both of them on the bike's limited space before, then it was an even bigger hassle now that Junkrat was tied up and squirming. Each wriggle made the chains jingle and rub against Roadhog's gut. Stinging red marks began to appear across his tattooed skin. 

Roadhog grumbled irritably, "Quit that."

Junkrat ceased his movements and turned around to shoot him a glare, "What?" He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the engine. 

"Quit moving so much." 

Sharp teeth bared themselves, contorting Junkrat's face into a dingo-like snarl. "Oh, roight. Suuuure. Wanna switch, mate?" He yelled with every ounce of sarcasm he could muster. 

That infuriating, sassy look on his face was short lived when they, once again, hit one of the many bumps on the road. Without his lone arm to steady himself, Junkrat jerked forward and was almost tossed off the bike for the fifth goddamn time since they left the ruins. 

Roadhog quickly let go of a handle bar to wrap his hand around Junkrat's torso, preventing him from falling off and landing face-first onto the cracked asphalt. The lanky idiot beneath his palm tensed at the sudden support and, for the fifth goddamn time, expressed his gratitude to Roadhog with a swift kick to his knee. Using the peg leg. 

The scrawny bastard was lucky he had his skull pad on.

"Fuckin'-" Junkrat continued to hiss and squirm, "Let go! I can do it myself!"

Roadhog exhaled angrily, hard enough for a fine mist to escape his filters. 

This wasn't going to work. 

The scowl behind the mask deepened as Roadhog slowed down. Eventually, he pulled over to the canyon side of the road and parked the bike behind a lone U-shaped outcrop of rock and rusted metal.

Convenient.

"Oi, why'd you stop?" Junkrat demanded once he turned to face him, "I didn't mean it  _literally_ , pigface! We can't switch. I can't even drive a-" 

"Shut up."

"You better watch your mouth pig-"

Roadhog held up a finger between them. "Just - damn it - just stop talking for two minutes. Stop moving. Stop kicking. Just stop." 

"Hey, I'm the one who's gonna be paying you, so you can't tell me what-!"

"Shhh," Roadhog clamped a hand over the rat's face and forced him to face forward, "Let me figure this out." 

While ignoring Junkrat's muffled cussing and attempts at thrashing, Roadhog tried to figure out the best way to transport this so-called "bounty." Decisions, decisions. 

Option one: keep the same arrangement as before.

If Roadhog had to deal with more chain burn to his stomach and another kick to the knee, he was probably going to snap the fool's neck himself. He didn't want to resort to that. 

Option two: boot Junkrat to the backseat.

That wasn't even possible at this point. The little space behind his massive bulk was currently occupied. Partially by their duffel bags of supplies from the inn, and partially by the giant chain spool attached to his belt. There was barely enough room as it was, so moving their belongings wasn't an option. Besides, if there was any way for him to store all the stuff somewhere else to make room, there was still the likely possibility of Junkrat kicking him on the back of the knee out of spite. Hell, the back of both knees even, considering his tempered state. 

Option three: lay Junkrat across his lap, similar to when he first took him to the Scraptown Inn. 

Roadhog took a deep breath. 

_Damn it._

Well, that option could work. He didn't like it, but it could work. He would have to wrap Junkrat up in some sort of blanket to prevent any unwanted chafing, but it could work. He would have to knock Junkrat out, and then deal with the string of profanities later once he woke up, but all in all, it could work.

It was, after all, the safest position for his unruly passenger. Being unconscious and nestled between Roadhog's stomach, angled knees, and bent elbows would lessen the risk of Junkrat jostling forward and cracking his head open on the gas tank.

Speaking of Junkrat...

He should probably let the guy breathe now. 

The lack of muffled yelling from the other Junker raised some concerns. He was being awfully quiet under the bodyguard's firm but forgiving grip. 

His scrawny shoulders quivered. A fine layer of sweat coated his neck. Clammy and cold in contrast to the pinching hot chains. The metal bindings left red, irritating marks across his back, shoulders, and arms. His breaths, once slow and vexed, now puffed out in quick and shallow bursts. His stump trembled uncontrollably. Spindly fingers scrambled to grasp gnarled scars at end of his lost limb. 

A familiar wetness on Roadhog's palm convinced him to uncover Junkrat's face. 

The smaller man slumped forward in an instant, face almost hitting the gas tank, whole body shaking like a dog left out in the rain, and futilely fighting against his restraints to grab the remains of his arm. 

A wave of panic hit Roadhog when he looked down to investigate his open hand, only to find fresh flecks of dark red across his skin. 

It wasn't his own blood.

"Rat," he reached out to grab the chains. To pull him back to a proper sitting position so he could check on him, but paused when Junkrat shook his head; the intensity of the action was enough to break his own neck if he tried.

"Don't-" he gasped, "No-" His tone was shaky, pleading, trying so hard to sound angry. To push Roadhog away. But instead it tore something in the bodyguard's chest, sending a sharp pang straight through his dust-lined lungs. 

The familiarity of the situation hit Roadhog like a desert sandstorm.

_"Phantom limb pains," the old woman hummed, "Where do I even begin."_

_Her round, wrinkled face looked somber under the yellow glow of the lamp. Dark shadows deepened the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, though she definitely wasn't laughing now. Not after the mess they made in the now torn-up bathroom._

_Roadhog shrugged, slightly awkward about the whole ordeal. "Causes. Effects. Treatments," he lifted his mask just the slightest bit to take a cold sip from his mug, then set it down on the warped wood of the night stand. "Whatever comes to mind."_

_"Right," Kip took a deep breath, "Well let's start with the feeling itself. Could range from mild, like a poke or a pinch, to extreme, like something sharp or shooting." She shifted in the recliner, balancing her cup of hot tea on the arm rest as she got herself comfortable._

A pained cry jolted Roadhog from his thoughts. 

The sight before him was not a pretty one. Then again, nothing constituted as pretty out here in the wastes. 

The smaller man writhed and whimpered against the restraints. He was slumped forward, avoiding any skin-to-skin contact with Roadhog. His only wrist bent at an uncomfortable angle. Grimy fingers tried pulling the chains to give him better access to his stump. Sweat, spit, and blood dripped onto the gas tank and dotted the surrounding sand. 

It hadn't been this bad at the inn. He hadn't been in this much pain.

If only Roadhog knew the kind of ache that plagued him.

_"Differs for every person and every instance. Could feel like a burn, like electricity zapping through the limb, throbbing, stinging, pulsing, the works," the old woman counted off her fingers as she listed the possible afflictions._

_Roadhog nodded. He quietly observed the locked door, watching occasional shadows pass by through the crack._

_Despite his annoyance, Roadhog stole a quick glance at the Junker splayed out on the bed behind him. His stump twitched in time with the uneven rise and fall of his chest._

_It had taken awhile for the old woman to remedy the pain, but she eventually managed to coax the scrawny man back to sleep. After one cup of tea and a few therapeutic stretches later, the Junker was out cold._

_Morbid curiosity got the best of him. "Wonder what he's feeling," Roadhog mused._

_Kip sighed and leaned into the stiff cushion, "Only he can answer that, Sonny."_

Every ounce of Roadhog's being screamed at him. Demanded him to keep driving, to keep moving until they reached the capital, to ignore the other man's pain until the money was exchanged. 

They needed to keep going. They just had to. 

A choked sob escaped Junkrat's hunched form. Desperate and pitiful. 

The sound ripped something awful in Roadhog's gut. A cold and heavy weight settled at the base of his core.

He had to unchain him. 

"Rat," he said, preparing to grab the restraints and pull him back, "I'm gonna un-"

"N-no-" Junkrat slurred and lurched forward. The normally shrill and chipper voice contorted into something gravelly and ugly. Violent coughing replaced the rush of desert winds in Roadhog's ears. Junkrat hacked, as if clearing his throat, and spat out a glob of blood. It splattered against the rocks. Either he bit his tongue or he was chewing on the inside of his cheek.  

"Rat," he said again. Large hands hovered over the trembling body, unsure of what to do. "Lean back and let me-" 

"No!" Junkrat yelled, facing the gaping maw of the canyon. The outburst resonated through the heavy air and rattled Roadhog's head.

"Junkrat," he grit his teeth, "You're bleeding. Let me-"

"Adds to the whole illusion, huh?" Junkrat cut him off. He spat out more blood. Impressively far enough so that it landed near the canyon's edge. "Makes it look like you really did a number on me," his voice was thick, "Makes it look real."

There was a layer of hurt in his tone, masked by the venom in his words. 

Roadhog huffed out a deep, exasperated breath. Now was  _not_  the time to be bitter about the plan. 

The stump still hadn't stopped twitching. Any pain Junkrat felt was stubbornly kept to himself.

"Idiot," the bodyguard rumbled, low and intimidating. A leather glove creaked as his hands tightened into fists. "You're bleeding and shaking like a goddamn leaf. Let me unchain you."

"Don't," Junkrat hissed. Even in this state he still chose to be difficult. The injured Junker tried to bring his leg over the seat, keeping his back to Roadhog the entire time. "Don't touch me." 

Time seemed to slow down as he swung into action. A man his size was expected to be loud and lumbering, someone who shook the very ground he walked on, and most of the time he fit that description. But Roadhog could move with purpose, silent and swift when he needed to. 

Before he thought it through, Roadhog was off the bike and looming in front of Junkrat, casting a stark shadow over his quivering body. He looked so small, curled up on the leather seat, absolutely refusing to look up. Bent in a way that looked as painful as it felt. His forehead almost touched the handle bars. 

He wouldn't meet Roadhog's unyielding gaze. 

"Look at me." 

Keeping his face downcast, Junkrat turned to the side and spat out blood again. 

"Look at me, 'Rat." 

Still nothing. Only matted hair, heavy breathing, and muttered curses. Droplets of sweat ran down the slope of his nose. 

Roadhog stepped closer, tentatively holding his hands out, ready to grab Junkrat's shoulders if needed. Just to hold him in place. To make sure he didn't run. 

"Stay still," his hands slowly reached for the hook, "I just need to-"

"Don't-" Junkrat growled through clenched teeth, "-touch me." 

It was the most hostile he's ever sounded. Like a trapped, injured animal. Barking and snapping at anything that threatened it. He muttered a few choice words at Roadhog under his heaving breath.

The bloodthirsty urge to snap the Junker's scrawny neck returned. Something sadistic in Roadhog said it would be easy. So easy. Just one firm squeeze, and he would feel splintering bones and warm blood spilling through his fingers. 

 _Patience_ , Roadhog gruffly reminded himself as the frustration crawled up his spine.  _Stand your ground. Don't do anything stupid._

They were so close. They were so damn close to town. He could practically _see_  the heavy iron doors of the Gate and he just wanted to make the damn exchange. To get this plan over and done with. 

But he couldn't do that if Junkrat was dead.

For awhile, he just stood there, shielding the smaller man from the harsh heat of the sun. Silent and lost in thought. He needed a different approach. 

Any ideas about forcing Junkrat's cooperation were immediately pushed into the darkest crevice of his mind.

Roadhog wasn't about to hurt him.

After all, he wasn't just another Junker who pissed-off the wrong people with the right amount of money. He wasn't just another one of his greedy employers who had too many enemies and too much power on their hands. 

He wasn't just another person that he was sent to hunt down.

He was important. Important enough to have the whole continent's interior know his name. 

He was different, in a positively strange way.

He was Junkrat.

_Give him some time._

That...wasn't him. That wasn't his own thought. 

There was someone else in Roadhog's head. Another person speaking to him. Thesofter, gentler, baritone voice of a man faded by time. A man who had died alongside the Outback. 

_Let him calm down. Then he'll listen._

The words weren't his, but he found himself amusing the thought anyway. Humouring the person that shared a physical and subconscious form with him, but nothing else. Certainly nothing else.

He listened to the conflicting voices in his head, and the unmistakable revving of approaching engines.

A deep rumble shook the earth. Thick clouds of dust rolled through the road and towards the lone outcrop. Roadhog braced himself as the wall of dust and debris whipped past them, keeping his hands around Junkrat's head to cover him, and listened for any signs of life. 

A pack of ten or so dirt bikes dominated the empty highway and sped right past their hiding spot. They left tires screeching and dust trails in their wake. 

Raiders. 

He's crossed paths with their kind plenty of times before. Worked for and with them. Junkers that banded together, ranging from groups of three to twenty. They plundered, looted, and stole their way across the wasteland. 

Junkertown was too much of a central hub for them to burn it to the ground. Maybe they were just paying a visit. 

Roadhog huffed in relief once the noise subsided and the bikes were long gone, glad to be well-hidden from the Junkers that were surely heading to the capital. The less they had to share the road the better. 

While he was relatively safe behind the mask, Junkrat was exposed to the previous onslaught of wind and sand. Roadhog had cupped his hands over the other man's head to provide some sort of cover from the debris, and was careful to avoid touching him. Whatever Junkrat was feeling, he didn't want anyone adding to it, even if it meant foolishly denying aid from another person. 

A soft whimper came from the man beneath his hands as the dust started to settle. Blond hair damp from sweat brushed against his palms. Roadhog glanced down, and was surprised to find two orange orbs looking back at him from between his fingers. 

He let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding, hard enough for a puff of air to escape through the now slightly dirt-clogged filters. 

"Let me help, Junkrat." 

The orbs blinked. They were bloodshot, watery, and studied him with the utmost confusion. 

Roadhog slowly uncovered the rat's face, revealing stark trails of clean skin across his sunken cheeks. Sunburnt white lines against patchy gray dirt. The soot had been washed away by his tears. 

The sight of Junkrat crying was and always will be unnerving. The sheer vulnerability of the act inflicted a dull ache in Roadhog's chest, but he couldn't look away. 

"I'm gonna unchain you," he began, saying the words slow and carefully, "Just stay still. Okay?"

Junkrat didn't shake his head this time. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. Blood trickled from his lips and spilled down his chin. He'd definitely bitten his cheek. "Okay."

He didn't protest when Roadhog slowly removed the hook, allowing the chains to unravel and fall from his shoulders.

He didn't flinch when a large hand reached out to touch the scars of his stolen limb, testing the waters.

He sighed softly, full of relief, when broad fingers began to trace soothing lines across his trembling stump. 

He finally opened his eyes, and they burned as bright as the sun while he stared into opaque lenses.

He was Junkrat.

And Roadhog didn't want to hurt Junkrat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh it's been way too long since the last update. Sorry for the long wait! Uni deadlines are fast approaching and ya girl is trying to keep her marks up. I hope the next chapter doesn't take as long for me to edit. Thank you for reading, commenting, and all that good stuff! 
> 
> Happy early Valentines Day! <3


	19. A Mild Case of Dipsomania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog is a pushover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys smell the slow-burn roasting over the dying flames of an open fire? I sure do.

They had to keep going.

Roadhog wanted to. Junkrat knew they had to. Both of them were varying, fluctuating levels of eager and apprehensive.

Regardless, they had to quit lounging around this damn outcrop and get a move on to their destination. Which was, quite literally, right under their noses. In Roadhog's opinion, there had been too many distractions, too many inconveniences, and too many stops over the span of just a single morning.

Counting this one. This spontaneous stop on the road only added to the time spent in the wasteland, not to mention the time soon spent in Junkertown. If they had followed Roadhog's schedule, they would've been stuffing their duffel bags full of job money, speeding past border control, effectively skipping town, and heading towards the coast by now.

Oh joy, the coast. Roadhog sighed and wished he could pinch the bridge of his nose through the mask.

He was a quiet yet analytical man in his own sense, often considering the pros and cons of each major decision in his life. A skill made wiser as the decades passed and the years blurred together.

Taking Junkrat to Sydney was definitely, without a doubt, a major decision.

On one hand, it was going to be a long and arduous journey. The sooner they left the Outback, the better their chances would be at avoiding additional confrontations. They only had so much time before news of Junkrat's discovery, whatever that may be, spread to all corners of the Junker occupied region, and even lesser time before groups and gangs alike started hunting them down in the masses.

On the other hand, Roadhog had no idea why he even considered taking part in such an idiotic and near suicidal idea. Sure, he never _said_ that he would take Junkrat to the coast. Never agreed to it out-loud, since damn cities were the last places he wanted to be in.

But for some bizarre, ungodly reason, he had silently agreed to take part in the next step of Junkrat's cryptic plan. Unless he spoke up, and if they made it out of Junkertown in one piece (this mostly applied to Junkrat), they were going to Sydney whether he liked it or not. And he most certainly did not want to.

The only problem was that he couldn't bring himself to outright say "no".

Roadhog didn't know _when_ he'd become such a pushover for the lanky idiot he now worked for. But he knew he didn't like it.

Not one bit.

But he wasn't doing a damn thing about it, and that confused him the most.

Junkrat's unblinking gaze was something close to hypnotizing. Fiery orange that flickered between two things: Roadhog's dark lenses, and the massive hand currently rubbing gentle circles along the gnarled length of his right forearm.

The scene of that first night was still fresh in Roadhog's mind. Free-flowing blood from the open, severed wound. A pile of new corpses covered in campfire ash and dust. Sharp aromatic tangs of metal and burnt wood. The malnourished, wild-eyed, flaming haired man chained to one of the jagged rocks, holding on for dear life.

Fortunately, Roadhog's healing gas had done its job in disinfecting and closing up the arm wound. Junkrat's skin had shrivelled up to form a mound of thick, lumpy flesh at the end of the stump. For now, it was the best he could do for the Junkertown runaway.

The fact that the amputation had been done by something so unorthodox, a pair of rusty serrated garden shears, slightly unsettled Roadhog, and that's saying a lot.

He's seen some shit over the last two decades. Gore. Death. Catastrophes. The literal goddamn apocalypse.

But who would've thought, that out of everything in the Outback, it was the rat's emotional and physical grief that got to him.

Just the slightest bit. The occasional tug on his heartstrings.

Even more unsettling than the emotions messing with his head was the way Junkrat looked at him.

No matter how hard he tried, Roadhog couldn't ignore the obvious awe and relief on the other man's face. Truth be told, it made him self-conscious to be stared at like that. Not necessarily in a bad way; at least the scrawny shit had stopped crying. No, Roadhog just didn't appreciate the embarrassing warmth in his now red-tinged ears.  

Behind the mask, broad lips and eyebrows turned down into a disapproving grimace.

 _Okay_ , he thought, _enough of that._

Roadhog eventually ceased the soothing movements across Junkrat's arm and began to move his hand away. "Need to grab some stuff," he said, "Then we keep going." He paid no mind to the smaller man's noises of protest, but paused, hand hovering in mid-air, when grimy fingers shot out to grab his wrist.

"Oi, wait...uh," Junkrat, whether or not it was intentional, dug his chewed up nails into the meat of Roadhog's arm.

Didn't hurt much, just a tiny pinch, but he huffed anyways and took a step back for emphasis.

"Whoops," the rat loosened his grip. Roadhog took this as an opportunity to slip away and head towards their supplies. Junkrat twisted around in the seat to keep the bodyguard in view. "My bad, mate. Just, uh, I just...wanted to say...um..."

Roadhog raised a hidden eyebrow. Whatever it was that Junkrat wanted to say, he was having a hell of a hard time saying it. He kept sputtering and losing his words.

"It was real...nice of you to...uh..." Junkrat mumbled, trailing off. He grazed his nails over the rough skin of his stump, leaving tracks of red through the dried dirt. A distraction from the pain. "Real nice of you to-"

The audible, involuntary sigh from the bigger man only seemed to discourage Junkrat even more. He pursed his lips and stayed quiet after that.

Roadhog huffed. This was so goddamn awkward _. He_ was being so goddamn awkward, and the twitchy idiot's stare really wasn't helping.

He rolled his shoulders, tried to brush off the mild twinge in his chest, and turned his attention to the bags.

Eventually, he found what he was looking for in the rat's pack; a tattered, patchy blanket that neither of them ever seemed to use. From what he was told during a one-sided, late night conversation, Junkrat had "borrowed" the blanket from the inn on the day they left ("Oh yeah. Forgot I nicked the ratty old thing. Gran caught me red-handed but she said I could keep it anyway, heh"). It would've been nice for the frigid cold nights, but it stayed stuffed in the bag, folded and forgotten, until now.

In his quest to find the blanket, Roadhog didn't notice Junkrat getting up from the seat until he was standing right beside him, peering over his arm.

"Got any booze back here?" Junkrat asked, knowing full well that the old woman had given them a few packs for the road. Or maybe he didn't know. Hard to tell with his seemingly shitty, selective memory. He probably forgot at this point.

Roadhog rolled his eyes. Speaking from first-hand experience, Junkrat and any kind of alcoholic beverage did not mix well together.

"Just a pack," he grunted. A blatant lie. He should’ve said they had none. Roadhog shook his head when he noticed the glint in Junkrat's eyes. "No drinking." Absolutely not. Allowing alcohol into the rat's system would be a disaster just waiting to happen.

Junkrat placed a hand over his chest in offense, "What? Why the hell not? It's not like I'm asking for the whole damn thing."

"Don't know why you're asking in the first place," Roadhog shot back.

"C'mon, 'Hog." Junkrat persisted, insistently holding up a finger. "Just one."

"No."

"Fine. Half."

" _No_ ," he said in the most monotone, uncompromising voice he could muster.

Junkrat narrowed his eyes, "I don't gotta ask for your damn permission. Last time I checked, we're sharing everything Gran gave. Especially the pack."

Roadhog shook his head, not at all surprised towards Junkrat's sudden defensiveness. "You have a problem."

"Oh?" Junkrat chuckled dismissively and crossed his arms. "Care to elaborate?"

Roadhog didn't know if the rat was joking or if his self-awareness was truly non-existent. Either way, he needed to hear this. For both his and Roadhog's sake. The bigger man leaned down to stare him dead in the eye.

"You have a drinking problem."

The smug look on Junkrat's face dissipated, leaving behind that familiar, bug-eyed gaze. "Oi," He pressed a finger against the rubber snout. "I do _not_ have a drinking problem."

Roadhog nudged the offending hand away. "You do."

"I don't!"

"Rat," Roadhog sighed. "Seems that way."

"Listen," Junkrat straightened up and stood his ground, "Just because you've seen me get shitfaced _once_ , just one time, does not mean that I'm a bloody alcoholic."

"Not saying you are," Roadhog unraveled the blanket and let it flap wildly in the wind, hoping to remove some of the cobwebs.

"So?" Junkrat gestured angrily with his hand and stump, "Out with it then."

"I'm saying that you have a problem."

Junkrat jabbed a finger in Roadhog's face again, "You _do_ think I'm an alcoholic."

"No, I don't." Roadhog rolled his eyes and folded the fabric over his arm, "Just stating the obvious. Drinking isn't the solution to everything."

"Don't you think I bloody well know that, 'Hog?" Junkrat crossed his arms, "Despite what you may think, I'm not _that_ much of an idiot."

Roadhog blinked. "Didn't say you were." While he often called Junkrat an idiot out of pure annoyance, his bag full of unfinished homemade explosives and on-the-go inventions proved otherwise. The guy could actually do a lot with just one hand.

Junkrat pinched the bridge of his nose and took a long, deep breath. "Look, I don't wanna talk about this. Just...just give me a bottle and we can go on our merry way. This ain't just me wanting to stall for time. I actually need it." He was _still_ leaving scratch marks over his afflicted arm.

Roadhog huffed, understanding what he meant by that. And while he clearly didn't agree with Junkrat’s remedial methods, he knew that there was nothing he could do to persuade him otherwise. Both of them could go back and forth like this all day, but they couldn't afford to bicker now. The longer they argued, the more time they would waste. Junkrat won this round.

"You want it," he grudgingly stepped aside to make room for the smaller man, "So you find it." Don't get him wrong, he completely understood _why_ Junkrat was so insistent, but he wasn't going to be the one to fuel the rat’s alcohol consumption.

"Fine," Junkrat snapped, and began to sort through the supplies without a second thought. There was visible trembling along his stump and fingers, and Roadhog didn't know if it was from pain or anger.

Roadhog sighed again as he trudged over the sand  to sit on a nearby boulder overlooking the canyon. "Only one," he reminded.

Junkrat scoffed and waved him off before resuming his search.

Roadhog looked down at the blanket in his hands.

Well, shit, looks like he got himself into another waiting session. He knew this was a bad idea, but he wasn't doing much to change his charge's mind. It wasn't like he had much control over the rat anyway.

But if Junkrat didn't find the damn booze in the span of ten minutes, he was going to chain him up, wrap him up, and drive off without stopping. No more interruptions.

He was serious this time.

Although, in a way, this was the easy route, right? To just keep Junkrat content and let him get the drink. Then chain him up and board the bike. No questions asked, or answered for that matter.

 _No_ , Roadhog thought. No. That wouldn't do. He _had_ questions, and the rat hadn't given him a single answer.

But then again, why would he? It's not like Roadhog ever _asked_ , and it's not like Junkrat would be open to talking about the apparent secrets of the Omnium.

The frustrating fact remained; he hadn't interrogated Junkrat about his treasure yet.

Not even once.

Quite careless of him, really. A part of Roadhog wished he had been more insistent, more demanding, instead of whatever the hell it was he's doing now.

No goddamn wonder Junkrat developed some sort of emotional connection. Roadhog was probably one of the few Junkers that hadn't tried to kill him. Which was strange, considering that killing people was literally his job. Or a large chunk of it, at least.

Then again, he initially _had_ to keep Junkrat alive. He still had to keep the scrawny shit in one piece until he delivered him to the bosses in town, since that was part of the settlement. A big part of him still wanted the money. Although, finding the guy chained to a damn rock and suffering from severe blood loss from having his arm forcibly cut off was certainly a setback. Definitely not how he thought their first meeting would go.

But enough of that. He'd been hanging around Junkrat too much. He was beginning to get a little scatterbrained.

Now, back to the lack of questioning.

In Roadhog's own defense, the circumstances never allowed for them to just sit down over a nice cup of tea and discuss the details. There were always external distractions that got in the way. Never a quiet moment with them. Always moving. Always being interrupted. Always losing focus.

Regardless, whatever the rat had found sent the whole Outback into a frenzy, effectively plunging the scrawny scavenger into a fucked up game of cat-and-mouse. And Roadhog stupidly signed up for said game when he agreed to protect the bastard. The least he could've done was question Junkrat about his discovery. Or better yet, have Junkrat reveal to him the contents of the treasure as a way to solidify the contract. He had heard the occasional snippet here and there, during some of their late night conversations, but never the full story. Never the important details.

Roadhog wasn't going to let that slide.

Right now, the rat was too on edge, not willing to give the bodyguard any information pertaining to his discovery. He'd have to start off small, take baby steps.

Roadhog had only been deep in thought for what seemed like two minutes. When he looked up, Junkrat was limping towards him, holding not one, but _two_ bottles by the neck.

"Rat," he grunted, pointing at the extra beer in the smaller man's grip. "Just one."

"Relax, you big bastard," Junkrat said dryly as he clambered onto the rock, "Ain't for me."

Roadhog raised an eyebrow, silently watching as the skinny Junker scooted closer to him until their elbows nearly touched.

Junkrat sniffed, coughed awkwardly, and finally held out the bottle, all the while keeping his gaze on the ramshackle buildings far below. "Here."

Roadhog blinked again, and wordlessly accepted the drink.

"Consider it a peace offering," Junkrat shrugged, taking a swig from his own bottle. He swished the liquid around, careful to avoid the side where he bit deep into his cheek, and sighed in relief when he had his fill. The tremors shaking his hand and stump seemed to slowly even out with each sip of the drink.

Roadhog noticed this. He knew where to start.

"What?" Junkrat could sense the pig's stare, "I know you're driving and all, but for sure it takes more than one measly bottle to get you sloshed."

Finally making up his mind, Roadhog asked, "Does it help?"

"Eh?"

"Your arm," he clarified, pointing at the faded label, "Helps with the pain."

Junkrat snirked and tipped the bore into his mouth, teeth clanking on glass, as he drank up to the last drop. A trickle of warm beer spilled from the corner of his chapped lips. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and shrugged again. "Lucky guess."

Roadhog turned over the unopened bottle in his hand, letting Junkrat do all the talking, like he usually did.

"The good shit's expensive down there. A real luxury," Junkrat continued, absently scratching at the faded label, "Could never afford it. Only splurged once in a blue moon."

That explained it, Roadhog realized. After the careless announcement of their newfound business partnership, the drinks back at the inn were on the house for them, courtesy of his favourite innkeeper. So he couldn't blame the guy for wanting to indulge a little. Even if he did go way overboard by the end of it.

Hold on, he'd lost his arm _after_ skipping town.

"Helps your leg too," Roadhog said.

"Leg? Hm," Junkrat slowly hiked up the torn end of his shorts, revealing old scars across the bit of visible right thigh. The gnarled mess was red and bandaged along the border, where pale skin met rusty orange metal. He must've patched himself up sometime during the past week. The gauze was starting to turn dusty and yellow.

"Arm's new," Junkrat went on, tugging the edge of his shorts back down to cover the straps of his prosthetic, and fiddled with the empty bottle, "Leg I'm used to."

Roadhog nodded, trying to ignore the twisting feeling growing in his gut, "Mostly for the arm then."

"Yeah. Well, I mean, leg too. In a way. I guess." Junkrat sighed and rubbed the back of his head, brushing his fingertips over the indents of puncture wounds. "Nice to numb both out sometimes."

Roadhog caught the hitch in his tone and turned to face him. There it was; that thousand yard stare. The same faraway look that graced Junkrat's sharp features whenever he vaguely mentioned his past. Roadhog followed the other man's fixated gaze, down, down, down the canyon, until his tinted view landed on the jutting spire in the middle of the town square. Even from up here, Roadhog could see the metal, crescent-shaped ornament perched on the tip, and the splashes of crimson staining the surrounding sand.

Roadhog swallowed down the unease. Well, surely one bottle wouldn't be enough in this case.

"Here," he said before he could change his mind, cradling the beer in a large hand. "Don't usually drink when the light's out. You have it."

Again, he really didn't know when he'd become such a damn pushover.

The beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of Junkrat's mouth. His twitchy fingers ran over the calluses of Roadhog's palm as he grabbed the drink. He whispered a simple “Ta” before cracking the cap off.

They sat in silence for what seemed like a minute. The only sounds were gulping and the whistle of the wind before Junkrat nudged his arm. He jerked his head towards the moth-eaten fabric in the big man's grip. "What's that for?"

He looked at Junkrat, then the blanket, and then back to Junkrat again. Time was ticking away.

They had to go.

The smaller Junker yelped in surprise when Roadhog wrapped his head and shoulders, covering his hunched and skinny frame with the sheet. Before Junkrat could get a word in, the bodyguard pocketed the empty bottles, placed a large hand on his back, and led him to the front of the bike. "Need to leave."

"Yeesh, could've warned a bloke, 'Hog. Gave me a bloody jump start," Junkrat grumbled. He spread his arms out, and the blanket flapped in the wind. "What's all this about?"

"Sun's too hot," Roadhog explained. It was always unbearably scorching, of course. "Makes the chains burn for the both of us. Might keep the heat off the metal for awhile." He swung his leg over the seat and helped Junkrat do the same. His employer didn't put up a fight this time, being way more compliant compared to ten minutes earlier. The bike's frame creaked and lowered as they both settled down. Roadhog grabbed the chain, lifted the fabric from Junkrat's back, and set to work.

The rat went quiet and still, considering this, before nodding his head. "Roight. Okay, sounds good." He turned around, staring at Roadhog with wide eyes. The blanket over his head gave him the appearance of a moth-eaten, desert ghost. "Hog."

The chain was pulled taut, hovering above the grimy skin of lean shoulders, "Hm."

"Thanks," Junkrat muttered with a wobbly smile. That was all he said before turning back around, letting Roadhog do what he needed to without any more interruptions.

The big man blinked, genuinely at a loss for words. Though he supposed it wasn't noticeable since he barely spoke to begin with. "For what?"

"Sticking around," was the soft response. No context. No hesitation.

Of course he had to stick around. It was his _job_. Currently bound by two different contracts, to bosses in opposite levels of professionalism. He didn’t forget the reason why he defected from his role as an enforcer in the first place. The promise of vast riches, all in the the twitchy hand of a scrawny scavenger, always lingered in the back of his mind. Whether or not Junkrat remembered the roots of their business partnership was a complete mystery.

The twisting feeling deep in his gut threatened to claw through him and squeeze his chest.

Junkrat was too upfront, too honest, for his own good.

A faint glint in Roadhog's peripheral got his attention before he could reply. He pried his eyes away from the back of the rat’s head long enough to investigate.

Across the plunging valley of rocks and metal were the Gate's heavy doors. Haphazardly welded together from various bits of scrap, wire, and junk. The massive structures caught rays from the afternoon Outback sun and glimmered brightly from far below.

A significant part of Roadhog wanted the money. They didn't have much of a choice in the matter of expenses. 

But deep down, underneath the cold-hearted carnage and lone-wolf lifestyle, the man he used to be foolishly wanted to take Junkrat away from this place and never look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a completely unrelated note: the new Gorillaz album announcement has me excited. If you lovely people like funky beats check out their track Saturnz Barz. It's a real jammer.


	20. Travel Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face, just out of reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realization grew on me  
> As quickly as it takes your hand  
> To warm the cool side of the pillow  
> I'm there for you, be there for me  
> I'll hum the song the soldiers sing  
> As they march outside our window  
> Hunger of the pine
> 
> I'm a female rebel  
> Sleeplessly embracing you
> 
>  
> 
> -Hunger of the Pine (alt-J, 2014)

Voicing his chronic aches never did Junkrat any good.

Pain was a weakness. Enduring it was a hindrance. Talking about it allowed other people to pity you at best, and exploit you at worst.

So he always kept quiet. Of all the things he could possibly do out here in the wastes, it was his best option. The less people involved the better. He's learnt to tough it out by himself.

He’s dealt with the searing burn that would spread across his thigh, curling his half leg close to him, waiting out the frigid cold nights in a trembling heap on his busted box spring mattress. Dealt with the electric tingling in his blown-off toes, grimacing at each excruciating step of the makeshift peg. Dealt with the knotting cramps afflicting the parts of his body that were no longer with him. Parts that he couldn't feel anymore. Couldn't see, couldn't touch, but were still completely and utterly _there._

Leg he was used to.

Arm was new.

At least back then he could bunker down in his dilapidated shack and wait for the aches to subside. Alone and cold and awfully lonely, but at least no one asked.

No one ever asked. No one did anything to help him. Not since his childhood. Not since the Pack. Not until Scraptown.

Not until Roadhog.

Roadhog.

Vicious. Calculating. Remorseless.

Yet, strangely patient with him all the while.

A beast of a man even before the fallout. Only made more infamous by the rumours of his involvement in the Rebellion, and by his growing body count in the last two decades.

Yeah, Junkrat did his research. He’s overheard the stories, the snippets, and the speculations over the years. He pieced together the gathered information as much as possible, envisioning the remnants of someone long lost. Someone who had lived _Before_.

Roadhog, with all his glory and larger-than-life persona, was nonetheless a quiet and mysterious individual. Junkrat could infer and investigate all he wanted, but he could never find out the true nature of the man under the mask. The big brute’s past was buried beneath the sands of time, hidden by the barrier of a trademark pig face.

Lucky (read: unlucky) for him, Junkrat was pretty well endowed in the art of digging. Years of scrapping and scavenging made a Junker very used to getting their hands dirty. Or hand, in his case. If this partnership lasted as long as he wanted it to, then he'd have plenty of time to pick up some of Roadhog’s quirks. Get to know him a little. Maybe the big lug would confirm some of the stories he'd heard. Maybe. Eventually.

Hopefully.

If their current social state was anything to go by, and with how smoothly they returned to tolerable terms with each other, Junkrat would say that things were going pretty well between them. So far, at least. Being business partners and all.

The blanket had been a good idea. Kudos to 'Hog. As the afternoon Outback sun beat down on them, the chains binding Junkrat were fortunately spared from heating up too much, covered by the tattered fabric that he'd previously forgotten about. Damn thing would've been nice for the frigid cold nights, but oh well. Better late than never, he supposed.

The ratty old cloth also served as a makeshift seat belt, currently tied to Roadhog’s arm like a giant glorified sling, anchoring Junkrat to the bike, and securing him in a way that prevented his skinny self from being flung off as they travelled at high speeds. They were making good time. Like Roadhog insisted, they didn't make anymore stops and tore through the broken highway, seemingly eager to finally get his payment for many weeks worth of work.

Junkrat didn't share the same enthusiasm. The chains jingled as he squirmed to stay upright and alert, purple eyelids growing heavy.

“Sleep,” came a deep rumble from above, overpowering the noise of the bike and Junkrat’s own thoughts. A damn mind-reader, he was.

“Can’t,” Junkrat rubbed his eyes. At least he had access to the only hand he had left. His arms were bound together at the elbows and forearms, across his chest, rather than forced behind him this time. This new position helped with the phantom pains.

“Try,” Roadhog grunted, trying to sound dismissive. The hint of concern in his tone was barely noticeable.

Hm, so the pig _could_ hear him over the engine. Figures. Granted, one simple word was easier to decipher compared to his usual stream of chatter.

Junkrat turned around to shoot the big brute a futile glare. He didn't take his eyes off the road, neglecting to meet the rat’s narrow-eyed gaze. Junkrat huffed and turned back when he realized Roadhog couldn't, or wouldn't, look his way, blearily staring at the blurred lines of the road ahead. “I'm trying.”

He really was. He'd much rather be enjoying the darkness and bliss that unconsciousness brought him.

Sleeping on Roadhog’s bike was a good way to kill time. Anything to stop thinking about his inevitable return to Junkertown. But his nerves were getting the best of him, much like the past few days. He was no doctor, but the build-up of stress was probably the root cause of the sudden aches in his severed arm. Either that or the timing was just cruelly coincidental.

The fleeting scenery around him did nothing to help the growing nausea. It all moved too fast, out of his control, and muddled together in a grey and orange haze. Made his stomach churn. Maybe the alcohol hadn't been a good idea.

“How’s the arm,” Roadhog asked, startling him from his thoughts. It sounded like a statement rather than a question. Monotone as ever.

Junkrat had to stop and think about it. The pain had receded into a dull ache. Still hurt like nobody's business, but at least it was bearable now. “Better,” he said eventually.

Roadhog coughed. Cleared his throat. Flexed his fingers, then his grip on the handlebars tightened again, leather gloves creaking. “That's good.”

Junkrat just nodded. “Yup.”

It was funny, really, how the mood fluctuated between them. From bickering, to breaking down, to right good chums, to just plain awkward small talk in no time.

“Sleep,” Roadhog insisted.

“Fine, fine,” Junkrat sighed irritably. The chains rattled again as he leaned further back to settle against the pig’s gut. A layer of moth-eaten fabric was the only thing separating the back on stomach contact. “Nudge me awake when we get there, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Huh, the pig’s hearing was certainly getting better.

Junkrat closed his eyes and tried to drift off, doing his best to push down the nervous feeling swimming around in his head. Focusing on the positives always helped calm him down. Though there weren't many positives to begin with, given their current situation. Not many positives in this irradiated shithole in general. He could probably count them all on one hand alone.

_Heh, one hand. Only hand._

Maybe the alcohol was getting to him. Just a smidge. _Bloody lightweight_.

Anyways.

First positive: the rather comfortable set up he had right now. Ignoring the chains and high speeds, that is.

He would have never, ever thought that the big bastard could be so _soft_.

Well, both physically and metaphorically speaking. A true softie once in a blue moon if he's ever seen one. Surprising for a guy who’s killed people for a living and laughed while doing it.

Second positive: Roadhog’s laugh.

Loud. Booming. Full of unbridled elation during times of combat. A stark opposite to his own shrill giggling.

Did he say that already?

Yeah, he's said that already.

_Keep it professional, Fawkes._

Right.

Whoops.

Third positive: the nearing promise of a proper getaway.

Not like the first time he'd hastily skipped town; with only the shorts on his hips and the gear on his back, dropping bombs and traps in his wake. No, this time was going to be different. Better. This time he had a proper motive, a proper getaway vehicle, a proper business partner to get away with.

_Heh._

Men with a mission.

“We got company.”

Junkrat cracked an eye open. “Huh?”

Without further warning, Roadhog floored it. The roar of his bike filled Junkrat’s constantly ringing ears, deafening to the point where his drums might rupture. Dust sent by whipping winds pelted the smaller man’s face.

“God dammit,” Junkrat sputtered. “You’ll run us off the road!”

“Not me,” Roadhog growled, unaffected by the debris he was kicking up. “ _Them."_

“Who-?”

Despite the immediate risk of falling off the bike, Junkrat scrambled to peek over the pig’s steady arms. He squinted at the blurred scenery, eyes stinging, sand particles permeating the air. Nothing. He couldn't see anything aside from the arid landscape. But he could _hear_ it; the unmistakable revving of approaching engines.

_Shit._

Only when he managed to kneel on the seat and look over Roadhog’s shoulder did he see them.

Dust clouds, about three in total, each growing larger in the distance.

They were coming up fast.

More raiders.

“Fuck.”

A large hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him back. “ _Sit_.”

“Three of ‘em,” Junkrat gulped as he settled down, listening to the group as they drew closer and closer. “Hog there's only three. Where’s the trap?”

“Behind me,” Roadhog replied. Tucked away with the rest of their supplies.

“Toss it.”

“What?”

“ _Toss it!_ ”

“ _No_ ,” Roadhog huffed, “Idiot. I'm not gonna pick a fight.” He chanced a glance over his shoulder and then immediately opened the throttle, pushing his chopper forward as fast as its rubber wheels could go. Yup, there were three of them alright.

“Oh so you’re gonna just wait for them to get close enough to breath down your neck?” Junkrat hissed. This was no time for that strategic, selective bullshit!

“Rules of the road, ‘Rat.” Roadhog grunted, annoyed at the scavenger’s impulsiveness. “We stay outta their way-”

“-And they stay outta ours,” Junkrat grumbled back. He was only somewhat familiar with road and biker etiquette. That was Roadhog’s forte. Surely he knew what he was doing. Still, Junkrat couldn't help his unease as he slumped back against the bigger man’s gut. “Got a bad feeling about this, mate.”

“They won't bother us,” Roadhog assured him. “Not when I'm around.”

Junkrat knew what the phrase implied. He could hear Roadhog’s voice in his head, uttering unspoken words.

“ _Perks of the reputation_.”

Junkrat scowled. A deep-rooted bitterness settled on his tongue. “Lucky you.”

Roadhog’s grip on the handlebars tightened. He didn't say anything else.

They drove on in tense anticipation. The sound of engines behind them grew louder, making Junkrat’s teeth clench and Roadhog’s shoulders stiff. “Shit.” Roadhog cursed under his breath, accelerating to try and outrace their would-be assailants. Junkrat craned his neck again to see over the pig’s tree-trunk arms in nervous curiosity.

A pair of two-seater sandrails decked out in spikes drove up beside them, surrounding both sides but kept off the road. The thick lines of dust they kicked up completely blocked their side view of the barren scenery. Junkrat feared that they would get closer, swerve into them, take their supplies and trash their ride. Then they would really be in some deep shit. But no, they did none of that.

Instead, the sandrails hit the gas, speeding forward and ahead of the pair, with one occupying the empty half of the highway, and the other _overtaking_ their god damn lane.

With how fast they were collectively going, Junkrat and Roadhog nearly had a heart attack.

“Bastards,” Roadhog grunted after hitting the brakes and starting up again, expertly avoiding a rear-end collision.

“The fuck are these drongos doing?” Junkrat snarled. “Shoulda blown their tires sooner!”

“Where's the third one,” Roadhog said; again with the questions disguised as statements. His mask turned just the slightest bit to the side. “Nevermind. Found them.”

“Cripesake,” Junkrat threw his hand up to protect his face from the sandrails’ debris. He couldn't help the red tint in his cheeks when Roadhog pulled the blanket over his head to cover him.

A streak of stark red blurred past them. The third raider driving a small, silent, spiked dirt bike settled between the two sandrails, forming a wall of desert vehicles that Roadhog had to drive around if he wanted to get to town first.

The dirt biker sharply yelled something over the wind, seemingly chastising the two sandrail drivers in a language neither of them understood. Two voices shouted back, pointing fingers at each other, and deep dismissive laughter rang from the cobbled-together conveyances. The biker apparently didn't like their response, judging by the way she flipped the drivers off before speeding up and pulling ahead.

The Junker pair scowled at the arguing between the members. It was almost… familial.

Strange. 

_Nobody’s got much of a family anymore._

Now the four vehicles formed the points of a misshapen diamond, uniformly driving along the highway. No swerving into each other, no road rage, no nothing. Aside from the close call from earlier, their current predicament was oddly lacking in combat. Instincts urged Roadhog to surpass this nonsense and just floor it all the way to town in the hopes that Junkrat and him wouldn't get attacked on the way there.

Interest, however, told Roadhog to see how things would play out. If this team wanted to mess with them, they would've done it sooner. Raiders weren't exactly known to hesitate.

The biker led the way for a short while before making a sharp turn to the right. As if on cue, the sand rails began to slow down, but still drove along. The rate at which they were moving, while stuck between _too slow_ and _fast enough_ , was suitable for potential conversation. Curious, Roadhog followed suit despite all his senses telling him otherwise. Slow-speed riding was something he didn't often do, living in the fast lane and all, but he wasn't terrible at it.

Meanwhile, she drove off the road and circled around to the back, filling up the empty spot behind the other sandrail, right across from ‘Rat and ‘Hog. The final point in the square.

The dirt bike and chopper now rode alongside each other. Roadhog could feel Junkrat’s jittering worsen.

“Afternoon, gentlemen.”

Both Junkers jumped when the biker spoke up. Her helmet visor was up only halfway, revealing scarred dark-brown skin. She was clad in a patchy, oversized leather jacket with the torn up leggings and boots to match. Even though they couldn't see her eyes, they could sense her gaze boring into them.

Roadhog tipped his head in a polite nod, half his attention on the road and the other half on the biker.

Junkrat craned his neck to look over the wall that was Roadhog’s arm and shot her a too-wide smile that stretched from ear to ear. “G’day.”

Roadhog snorted. The scavenger looked about ready to jump off the bike and leg it.

She cleared her throat. “Apologies. My brothers. They’re _idiots_ ,” she said a little louder, no doubt so her team could hear too. “Reckless. Always looking for a race.”

Both Junkers furrowed their brows, resisting the urge to sneak a confused glance at each other. Raiders weren’t exactly known for their tact, either. Nor did they normally travel with relatives, if they even had any.

She shook her head and scoffed. Clearly she disapproved of her team’s actions. Her hidden yet scrutinizing stare then locked on Roadhog. “It’s not everyday we run into a big name.”

Ah, so they knew of him.

While anyone else would let the infamy get to their heads, Roadhog took it in stride, meaning he said nothing. Even if his notoriety had benefits, he never did like the recognition that came with it. The biker wasn't deterred by the lack of a response and continued to cruise beside them.

The smaller man’s antsy movements weren't helping the situation in the slightest. Roadhog ducked down to murmur in Junkrat’s ear, “Relax.”

“Easier said than done, mate,” he whispered back, hiding behind Roadhog’s arms again. “Act natural.”

Roadhog sighed. “Just let me do the talking.”

Junkrat breathed out a laugh through his teeth, “Says the bloke who barely talks to begin with.”

“Don't push it, ‘Rat.”

Unbeknownst to them, the biker listened to their bickering in quiet amusement. “Nice day for a drive,” she piped up, raising her voice to be heard over the engines.

Ever a man of few words, Roadhog grunted out a simple “Yeah.” Idle small talk wasn’t his strong suit.

Junkrat on the other hand…

“Roight-o,” He chirped, “Strong breeze coming in towards the canyon. Not too many folks out on the road at this time. Plenty of elbow room. The heat’s just bloody sweltering, though.”

Roadhog leaned down again. “What happened to acting natural.”

“I'm making good conversation,” Junkrat retorted, still keeping that excessive smile. He turned to their neighbour again. “Anyways, we’re just two blokes having a canyon-side ride on this here lovely day. Nothing to see here. Nice meeting you and all but if your boys can free up some space for us to pass that’d be swell. ‘Else we’ll just drive around and be on our way.”

Roadhog could only roll his eyes and sigh audibly as Junkrat rambled on. Well, there goes their cover. Junkrat was absolute shit at acting. He was going to have to put some tape over his employer’s mouth. He’d hate to have Junkrat mess things up around the townies by talking too much.

Still, the turn of events was peculiar. Roadhog couldn’t get a good read on these people. The only thing keeping him calm was the weight of his scrap gun behind him. A great reassurance. If these punks wanted to try him, he'd be ready.

For now though, all she wanted to do was make casual conversation. It made Roadhog restless, his trigger finger itching for a fight, for their group to make the first move.

The biker made no action to instruct the rest of her team. Her family, really. She said nothing for a few moments, the awkward vocal silence stretching far longer than it had to.

“Awfully chipper for a captured man,” she finally said. Her voice had an edge to it that neither of them liked.

“Captured? Me?” Junkrat waved flippantly. The chains glinted against the sunlight. “This here is just a, uh,” _God dammit stop talking-_ “Safety precaution.”

She scanned them both over from behind the visor, mouth pursed. “Sure.”

Roadhog’s grasp on the handlebars tightened, turning white-knuckled. “Got a problem,” he asked, monotone and unamused, low and intimidating. She appeared far too comfortable with the situation.

She turned the handlebars left and right as they drove along at a medium pace. Her whole demeanour radiated nonchalance. “Just never seen an enforcer and a bounty so chummy with each other before.” She shrugged and clicked her tongue. “Strange, I'd say.”

There was no denying the knowing smirk that tugged on her lips.

“Heh,” Junkrat laughed nervously, jingling the chains as his shoulders shook. “Me and Roadie here are real good chums.” _Stop talking, stop talking, stop-_ “Ain't that the truth, Roadie?”  

“Don’t call me that,” Roadhog grumbled, then ducked down again to speak. “Watch her movements while I drive. If any of them try anything, let me know.”

“Okay, but...I dunno, mate. If they wanted to mess us up they would’ve done it sooner,” Junkrat whispered, “Besides, she seems-” Nice? Civil by wasteland standards? Familiar?

Familiar...

“Keyword. _Seems._ ”

“Fine, fine.” Junkrat pushed that last thought out of his mind.

Roadhog sighed, “If she wants to talk then respond. Just _quit_ calling us _friends_ while they’re around.”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh,” Junkrat hissed. “You think she's on to us?”

“No shit, ‘Rat,” Roadhog growled. “Just remember the plan. We’ll get through this.”

“ _Fine._ ” In all honesty, Junkrat couldn't help but be a little offended. He _did_ remember the plan. As a matter of fact, he was going for the _“captive who tried to get on his captor’s good side in a last-ditch-effort to win his freedom”_ shtick. But obviously Roadhog was not having it. He pursed his lips and stubbornly stayed quiet.

Barely any time had passed before the biker spoke again. This time it wasn't directed at them, but to the rest of her posse. She called out to the sandrails in her own language. More words were exchanged between them. The longer ‘Rat and ‘Hog listened, the less hazy the dialect became.

“Warlpiri,” Roadhog murmured into his ear again. For him, communicating to Junkrat in their current situation was easy; no one could see his mouth move.

“Hmhm,” Junkrat nodded slowly. _Fellow Top Enders. Wonder what brings them into the neighbourhood._

The pair were surprised when a tiny, high-pitched voice squeaked out from the farther vehicle. If Junkrat squinted, he could see the face of a child barely visible from where he was, her small hands moving in deliberate gestures. She was signalling something. The message was directed across from her, to the other sandrail.

Junkrat frowned. “Hm,” he secretly smacked the pig’s leg; _See that?_

Roadhog nodded, “Look.”

Peeking from behind the passenger side of conveyance in front of them was another little girl. She turned around, kneeling in her seat, and hooked her arms around the backrest to keep herself from falling off. She faced the two baffled Junkers and waved to get their full attention.

The child, who couldn't have been older than ten, raised her open palms up. Fingers apart and held out in front of her. Her hands began to move outwards, steady and linear, while each index and thumb touched at the tips. A slow, repetitive, almost plucking gesture.

Roadhog huffed, “Can you read sign?”

Junkrat turned to him and quickly mouthed, _Little bit. You?_

“Ditto.”

They sat back and watched. She was signing Auslan they soon found out. Standard Aussie sign language. Not the Warlpiri version, so they had an easier time in trying to decipher the message.

Junkrat was the first to figure it out. A single word.

 _Peace_.

They meant no harm.

Both of them let out a deep breath. They were still confused and nothing short of wary. Silent concords weren't exactly common out on the highways. Everyone usually either moved too fast or died too fast to do any of the sort. Even if this team declared themselves amicable friends, who was to say they weren't lying foe.

“Enforcer,” the biker called out, effectively startling the pair again.

Her visor was fully raised this time. The familiarity of her deep brown eyes struck a chord in Junkrat. A heavy weight settled in his chest. The back of his head throbbed dully. He could only stare back.

Remember, remember.

The biker’s gaze then flickered to his own, and Junkrat resisted the urge to flinch. Eye to eye. The look on her face was indiscernible. Unblinking. “Or should I say Bodyguard.”

She knew from the start.

The pair took a sharp breath. The mere reality of being caught unnerved them. A sinking feeling hit both men square in the gut.

_God damn it._

“We ride with you,” she said before Roadhog could reach for his weapon. “We want no trouble. Just a safe passage through the Gate. Easier done if we tag along. But we will not hesitate to retaliate if you even touch the trigger on your gun.” They were suddenly aware of the rusty blade on her hip. “Otherwise, we won't try anything.”

Roadhog could've bent his handlebars out of sheer aggravation. “Three conditions,” he growled.

She nodded, unfazed, “Name them.”

The sharp throbbing in Junkrat’s head returned full force. He winced and grit his teeth.

_A subconscious reminder._

“One,” Roadhog pressed on. “We take up the forefront.”

_A reminder to remember._

“Two,” he continued. “Watch our backs for the rest of the trip.”

_Remember._

“Three,” he jabbed a finger at her. “Tell nobody of what you know.”

“Agreed.” She accepted Roadhog's requirements much too quickly for their liking. The corners of her lips turned up, forming the slightest hint of a leer. She knew she had the upper hand. “Lead the way, gentlemen.”

_Remember her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it has been exactly one year since I've posted this fic so, uh, Happy Anniversary! I guess. *confetti noises*
> 
> Sorry for the wait. Gosh it's been so long. Senior year was just, ugh, horrible. But ya girl is finally a graduate! Summer is finally here and it's time to frickin' party. Hopefully that means more frequent updates in the future. I'll respond to comments as soon as I can! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, commenting, and all the support <3 I hope you all have a wonderful summer season!


	21. Gateway Through the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat remembers. 
> 
> Roadhog does the talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Week 2 of my family vacation, and instead of sleeping early I'm the only person in the hotel room still up, hiding under the covers while typing away on my phone using the shoddy wifi. 
> 
> But I digress. 
> 
> Still haven't responded to comments, sorry about that! I'll get to them as soon as I can get my hands on a computer, since my shitty old iPhone is real glitchy with AO3 and this is my third attempt at trying to upload this chapter. I really appreciate all the positive feedback, so thank you all for sticking with this story ^-^ 
> 
> I really have to sleep now. Goodnight, and have a great week!

The low scrape of a heavy metal sheet grated against the dry ground of the fenced-in confine. Its sharp edge dug narrow trenches into the sand before it was carelessly thrown aside with the rest of the unneeded materials. The scrawny lad stood up straight, hands on his hips, and nose upturned as a triumphant feeling washed over him.

Yet another obstacle cleared by the great Jamison Fawkes.

His self praise was short-lived, however. He couldn't help the shrill giggle that left him, too excited by the prospect of new treasures hidden within the latest scrap pile he was sifting through.

He knelt back down and eagerly resumed his search.

The nights were both a blessing and a curse. The moon brought relief from the scorching afternoon heat. He hardly broke a sweat as his arms grew sore from digging through what was probably his third junk heap in the past hour or so.

What can he say; he was on a roll. Once he got started, it was pretty difficult to get him to stop.

Dig. Grab. Inspect.

Useful? Keep. Don't like it? Toss.

A small bundle of blue and red caught his eye. Barely attached to the ancient device as it was, he pulled the tangled wires from its loose button panel with ease. A good find, a functional find. He grinned and stuffed it into his back pocket, pleased and itching to find more.

Dig. Grab. Inspect.

His daily routine.

Rattling along the chain link fence tore him away from his soon-to-be prize. The soft crunch of footsteps urged him to hide within the crevice he'd created within the mound. Someone else was in here.

Drat. The trip wire he’d set wasn't enough.

Fortunately, the scrap yard had plenty of prospects for a potential weapon. He could quickly fix something up if need be. This time, however, he was prepared.

Gripping the lead pipe like a gangly batter, he set off, carefully creeping through the confine. Slower than he'd like, due to his longtime injured leg, but he wasn't about to let that stop him. He kept watch, staying close to the piles, turning in slow circles. His gaze darted and scanned the surrounding area for anything resembling a threat. For now, the coast was clear and the footsteps had ceased. If he could make it back to where he'd entered then he'd be home free and-

He screamed as hands emerged from the shadows and pulled him back.

He swung the pipe blindly, engulfed by darkness where the moon didn't shine, as the iron grip on his shoulders shook his scrawny frame. “Let go of me ya sharp-nailed bastard!” He was going to hurt them. _Kill_ them for touching him.

“Language!” The intruder snapped back.

That voice. Oh lord was he glad to hear that voice. His thrashing slowed to a stop. The hands loosened their hold and he spun around to face her. “Cripesake, Karri,” he panted, “Don't sneak up on me like that! Scared the crap outta me.”

“Obviously,” the dark figure said. From what Jamison could see as his eyes adjusted, her arms were crossed and her foot tapped impatiently against the sand.

Oh no. She was upset. No doubt about it.

Metaphorically speaking, he was a dead man.

Jamison allowed himself to be ushered out into the moonlight, a firm grip on his forearm pulling him along. There was no use in fighting. Physically, at least. It would only make things worse for him. He laughed nervously when they came to a halt near the entrance. “Now, I know you're mad but just hear me out-”

“ _You_ ,” Karri stepped closer. Those deep brown eyes bore into him. Her slightly taller, stronger stature casted a shadow over his face as she loomed over his skinny frame. “You really enjoy getting into trouble.”

He stared down at his tattered sneakers, “I just...wanted to bring something nice back."

Her anger faltered for a moment, mere seconds, before that signature grimace returned to her face. “You should have gone out during normal morning hours.”

“Wanted it to be a surprise,” he muttered, awkwardly scratching his neck.

“What if someone else found you here?” she said gruffly, “Better yet, what if someone followed you back to the Caravan? Or if a mutated beast followed your scent. You'd lead them right to us!” She huffed and massaged her temples, “You're a bright kid, Jay. A resourceful Junker. But you know how it is at night. You _know_ and yet you still go out on your little adventures. All by _yourself_ , too. Sometimes you are just so _hardheaded_ -”

“Oi!” He snapped back, “Don't you start patronizing me.”

“You never listen-”

“If it bothers you so much then I'll stop!”

“You always say that.”

“I mean it this time!”

“No. _Enough_ excuses. We have rules for a _reason_ ,” she barked, “The least you could do is _follow_ them like everybody else. Quit running off and separating yourself. We're-”

“Why the _hell_ do you care? All I ever seem to do is piss you off anyways. So _what_ if I don't come back one day? It wouldn't make much of a _bloody_ difference!” He sniffed despite himself. Angry tears stung the corners of his eyes. Weak. Crying was a sign of weakness and he wasn't about to show her that. “You can't speak for the rest of them. I know most of them don't like me. So what makes _you_ any _fuckin’_ different?” He quickly wiped his cheeks and jabbed a finger in her face, “You ain't my sister, and you sure as hell ain't my mum!”

If he surely wasn't a dead man before, then he certainly was now. No one _ever_ talked to the older kids like that. Unless they wanted to sleep out in the open.

The absolute shock on her face would’ve been satisfying if Jamison’s vision wasn't starting to blur. Karri stepped back to give him some space. “...worried about you,” she finished, looking away with a deep sigh. “We're worried about you.”

“Who’s _we_?” He asked bitterly, hiding his own surprise at her words.

“Me, for starters,” she muttered, moving to sit on a massive tire that jutted out from closest pile of junk. “Jarrah, Omeo, Kas-”

“Bah,” he waved dismissively, “You're just saying that to make me feel better.”

The corners of her mouth twitched upwards. Just the slightest bit. “Is it working?”

Yes.

“No.”

He crossed his arms, lips pursed and gaze downwards.

“...Maybe.”

“Good,” she said plainly, scooting over to make room on the tire.

Despite his internal protests, Jamison soon found himself next to her, back hunched and arms still crossed tightly on his chest.

Just two kids in tattered clothing, sitting in the middle of a scrap yard during the dead of night.

They fell into an uneasy, heavy silence. Jamison took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He wasn't ready to talk yet.

Instead, he listened to the various sounds around them. The scrape of her old leather boots against the ground, littered in metal and other debris. The shifting of the junk pile beneath them. The distant skittering of sparse, mutated, nocturnal animals far off into the distance. The faint howling of the cold winds.

“Your temperament is justified,” she spoke up, startling him from his senses. “I don't blame you, or anyone else. We're all… sick, angry, bitter, in a way.” She shifted in her seat, waiting for some form of a response. When she didn't get one, she pressed on. “But turning on ourselves isn't going to help anyone. The Caravan, each other, it’s-” she took a deep breath, “It may not be the best. But… it's all we have. We can't lose anymore people. We’ve lost so much already. We just… can’t.”

Jamison sighed deeply, breath faintly visible in the nightly chill. Defeated. The things she said were true. Completely and utterly true. Yet, his own stubbornness and petulance kept him from acknowledging her.

Fortunately, she usually wasn't disheartened whenever his temper ran rampant. She was the only leader with the patience to deal with him, after all. 

Jamison heard a zipper being pulled, rummaging, then the ruffling of thick fabric. In the heat of the moment, he didn't notice that she brought her backpack. A light weight across his shoulders made him tense up. “M’not cold,” he grumbled.

She wrapped the blanket tighter around him, not saying a word. She was used to waiting him out.

Finally, when both the quiet and her patience became too much for him, he turned to look at her. “M’sorry.” Shame crept up his spine and he looked down at his hands. “Didn't mean it. Never mean it. Glad it was you who found me out here. Got lucky.”

She sighed. “I'm sorry too.” She stood and started to pace. “ I know I can be… overprotective, sometimes.”

“ _Sometimes?_ ”

“Don't push it.”

Jamison couldn't help but snicker at that. “Overprotective is probably what the Pack needs, honestly.” He shrugged and tied the ends of the blanket loosely around his neck, forming a cape. “S’nice to have someone around who actually gives a shit.”

“Language.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved her off. “M’not seven anymore.”

“You're eleven. You're still a kid,” she scoffed. She was one of the few people Jamison knew who actually bothered to keep track of time. Four years out on the wasteland roads and settlements were all a blur to him when he thought back to it. Then she stopped pacing. “You think so?”

“What?”

“That what I'm doing is good for the Pack.”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” he shrugged, “ _Somebody’s_ gotta keep us rowdy anklebiters in place.”

“Mostly just you,” she teased.

“Yeah,” he huffed out a laugh, “Just me.”

For the first time in a long time, Jamison saw her smile a genuine smile. “Thanks, Jay.” She held out a hand to help him up, then walked further into the scrap yard. “C’mon.”

He frowned. “Where we going? Exit’s the other way.”

“You said you wanted to bring something nice back,” she gestured to the junk heaps behind them, “So let's bring it back.”

Now _that_ piqued his interest. “You...you mean it?”

She was already weaving through the piles. “Are you coming or what?”

He grinned and limped after her.

“Was gonna dig it out before I left,” he explained. “It's this box lookin’ thing. Has dials, screen’s mostly intact except for the crack in a corner, and the antenna isn't even that bent! If I could get it working then maybe the kids would have something better to do after dinner than just sitting around.”

“Sounds good, but we need to get back before they notice we’re gone,” she reminded him, "I'll keep watch. You work your magic." 

“Yeah, yeah. I'm on it.”

“I hope you know which pile it’s in. Otherwise we’ll be here all night.”

“Psh,” Jamison scoffed, “Know this place like the back of my hand.” An exaggeration, of course.

“Big words for a skinny pack rat.”

“Oi,” he jabbed a finger to his chest, “That's _Junkrat_ to you, miss.”

“Right,” she laughed, and he couldn't help but laugh along too.

 

Junkrat awoke to a hand on his chest, splayed across the blanket and the chains underneath it. A callused appendage so massive that it could wrap around his entire torso if need be. Right now, the hand was holding him in place while its twin held the handlebars steady.

The bike was riding down an incline. Towering red stone walls on either side of them provided some shade from the afternoon heat. High above, Junkers were stationed along the elevated plain of rock that made up the walls, brandishing their weapons, overlooking both the town and some of the land beyond it.

The Junkers watched them as they passed, mostly disinterested, until they saw who was at the forefront. Roadhog. _The_ Roadhog himself, leading the rest of the vehicles towards the metal gates that blocked their path.

Roadhog must've sensed that he was awake now. Junkrat felt puffs of warm air across his cheek, blowing through one of the filters, as the pig leaned down to speak low in his ear. “The less you talk, the sooner we’ll get through here.”

Still groggy and bleary-eyed, Junkrat merely grumbled and nodded, too tired to argue back. He looked down to find his peg leg covered by the blanket. His supposedly most defining feature hidden from prying eyes. Smart move on Roadhog’s part. A line of gatekeepers stood between them and the doors. Roadhog slowed to a stop, and the others behind them followed. The dirt biker pulled up beside the pair.

Junkrat couldn't help but stare. Even now, with her visor down and covering her face, he knew it was her. 

 _She_ was the girl with the brown eyes from his hazy memory. She had to be. 

If they weren't surrounded, he would've called out to her. He had to make sure.

An old, seedy man stepped forward, gripping his machete. He tipped his furry hunter hat back and squinted at them. His wrinkled face broke into a toothy grin. “Well lookit ‘ere! If it ain't the Butcher himself. Last time we saw you off was weeks ago, if I do recall correctly.” He sounded like gravel, rough and scratchy. Like he’d been chewing on the bits of rubble that littered the town’s dirt streets.

Roadhog sighed, “Let us through, Wally.”

“Now wait just a minute there, mate. First things first, I gotta ask you folks the standard series of questions.” He craned his neck to peer behind Roadhog, “Hm, although I don't remember the rest of your search party ‘ere.”

Roadhog and the dirt biker exchanged brief, masked looks before he turned to face the old man again. “Met them out on the road. She's in charge.”

“How ‘bout the sleepy fellow on yer’ lap?”

“He's _not_ on my-”

Wally held a hand up, narrowing his eyes at the two men. Inspecting and scrutinizing. He pointed at Junkrat. “This a job, ‘Hog?”

“Bounty,” he grunted out. Plain and simple. Nice.

The old man leaned in. “ _The_ Bounty?”

“Wally,” Roadhog growled.

“Ah,” he shook his head. “ I get it. Just curious, is all. Killed the cat and such, but can't blame a bloke for trying. Anyways, enough chit chat. Can't keep you from business affairs any longer. Now, for the standard protocol. Like you said before you and the miss in full-gear ‘ere call the shots.” He nodded to the dirt biker and cleared his throat. “First things first, names?”

“Roadhog.”

“Red Eagle.”

Junkrat could've sworn his heart stopped right then and there.

It _was_ her. In the flesh. Merely an arm's length away. It took all of his willpower to not burst into tears in that instant.  

_Keep it together, Fawkes._

So long. It's been so long. Thousands of questions buzzed around in his head. He hoped she could answer most of them.

“Reason for crossing?” Wally continued.

“Visiting a resident,” the dirt biker spoke up first.

Wally scratched his beard, “Gotta have to be more specific, there, miss. It's protocol.”

She sighed. It seemed like Roadhog wasn't the only one annoyed at the hold up. “My girlfriend.”

“Aw,” the old man clasped his hands together, “Young love. How ‘bout you, big fella?”

“Cashing in,” Roadhog said. Nice and easy. He'd done this before.

Junkrat closed his eyes. Ouch.

“Ah, I almost forgot. I hate to tell ya this ‘Hog, but you just missed them. The Mayors went on a business trip. Left a couple days ago. Said it was urgent.”

Junkrat opened his eyes in surprise. _The Mayors?_

Well, shit. 

Roadhog clenched the handlebars. “How many days until I get my damn money.”

“Said they’ll be back in a week. They're heading towards the Civvies, y’know. Pickin’ up some new hires.”

Roadhog grunted, low and irritated. He cursed under his breath. 

Wally held his palms up, “Now easy there, ‘Hog. If you're real eager to get in and get out of here then their second in command is due to come back in two days. He's got the keys, after all. Had to leave in a pinch and check out some weird shit happening a few towns over. Didn't say what for, but he’ll be back sooner.”

Roadhog sighed, exasperated, “Just let us through, Wally.”

“Course, ‘course. People to see and places to be,” he turned to the pair of burly Junkers in front of each door. They stood with their feet firmly planted, palms flat against the warm, rusted metal, waiting for the old man’s instructions. “Let them through, ladies and gents.”

Thin streams of sunlight glowing through the crack grew brighter, harsher, as the heavy doors were steadily pushed open by its strongest gatekeepers. The metal hinges creaked, echoing loudly through the canyon, making everyone within a 50 metre radius who didn't work the Gate often wince from the grating noise. The outline of cobbled-together buildings eventually, finally, came into view. Seconds passed until their eyes adjusted to truly take in the sight of the mish-mashed town. A mixture of rustic, post-apocalyptic, and just plain garbage heap at first glance.

Still, it was no doubt the most elaborate and established of the Junker settlements. The first of the worst.

“Welcome to Junkertown,” the old man announced. Much too cheery. It made Junkrat's stomach churn.

Wally hobbled back to the sidelines. He waved farewell as they rode past. 

The vehicles cruised forward as the metal doors began to close, blocking the way between open desert and capital soil.

Junkrat was home.

He had hoped this day would never come.

Wally called out to them, just as his face disappeared from view. “Enjoy your stay, folks.”

With those parting words, the Gate closed completely, towering and looming over them once more.

They drove on.


	22. Perfect Timing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog chit-chats with some Junkertown residents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My interpretation of Junkertown is probably a lie but goodness gracious I hope the new map and animated short announced at Gamescom are Junker-related even if my headcanons get destroyed please Blizz that's all I ask for.

To say that Roadhog was pissed would've been an understatement.

His quiet irritation towards their current predicament threatened to flare out into something destructive during the short drive to town.

Keeping his composure wasn’t easy. His iron grip on the handlebars helped defuse some of the anger, as did the rhythmic breathing of the scrawny man in front of him. Being under the watchful eye of the dirt biker as she and the rest of her group trailed behind also urged him to remain calm and collected. All the while, his thoughts honed in on every single bad decision he’s made and experienced during the last week or so.

They were too late, and it was nobody’s fault but their own.

They should've been _faster_. They should’ve gotten there _sooner_.

There had been too many distractions. Too much second guessing.

Roadhog grimaced as the town spire finally came into view.

He never should’ve let Mako come back.

Red Eagle blurred into his peripheral, the dirt bike buzzing in his ear like a fly at his side. Don't get him wrong; he had nothing against her. In fact, he didn't mind her or her group following them around in the meantime. But he was far too annoyed to deal with more than one nuisance right now. He already had to deal with Junkrat for the indefinite future.

“Enforcer,” she called out to him, her voice cutting through his thoughts. She motioned for him to slow down, and he complied. With their recent arrival, he could afford to take his damn time for the next two days.

He sighed, stretching the stiffness from his neck as he cruised along. They were still on the outskirts, far enough from the bustling town square and from any eavesdropping passerby.

Now that he thought about it, he supposed this set back wasn't the worse thing that could possibly happen to them. They could use the time they had left to lay low, gather supplies, and plan their next move.

He didn't want to deal with the Mayors’ bullshit anyway.

Whatever. It wasn't so bad. He was still pissed, but there was always Plan B.

Red rode beside them, glancing over the pair from the corner of her eye. Her helmet visor was up this time. “I assume this is where we part ways.”

Roadhog nodded slowly, secretly eager to pull away and drive the opposite direction, until he noticed something different about her. There was no hiding the deep gashes on the right side of her face now. Three jagged claw marks that ran across her cheek. One even curved down the side of her neck. Painful. He's known that kind of experience all too well. He could think of a few creatures off the top of his head that were vicious enough to have done something like that.

Roadhog soon found that he wasn't the only one who saw her scars.

“Red,” Junkrat spoke up, suddenly sitting taller in his seat. “Who did this to you?”

It wasn't a matter of _who_ , but _what_.

The scrawny man’s voice took them both by surprise. Junkrat had been unnervingly quiet during the rest of the trip there. At the time, Roadhog was just glad the skinny shit actually listened to him for once, though perhaps there was more to his silence than he initially thought.

Junkrat spoke to her with so much familiarity, failing to hide the concern in his tone.

The seconds trickled by, and neither Roadhog or Red knew what to say.

Behind her, two young men, dressed in similar fashion to their sister, emerged from the sandrails to watch the scene unfold. They looked identical. Definitely twins. The main difference between them being their hair cuts. They stared at Junkrat, their faces indiscernible; like they were torn between joining the conversation or remain spectating from afar. One of them, the one wearing yellow goggles with his hair up in a tangled bun, took a hesitant step forward, but stopped in his tracks when Red held her hand out.

“Omeo,” she barked, “Jarrah.” Roadhog assumed those were their names. She said something to them in her dialect, and the young men backed off, reluctantly sitting back in the sandrails.

The siblings’ interactions spurred Junkrat on. He shifted to lift his leg over the bike. Roadhog stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Rat,” he warned.

He was expecting a fight this time, but the smaller man made no moves to argue or struggle. All the energy seemed to seep out of him.

“Karri,” Junkrat rasped, sounding small and almost desperate, “C’mon, mate. Talk to me.”

“Not here.” She turned back to the pair, her hardened gaze landing right back on Junkrat. “Not now. There's no time.”

“Told you it was him,” the one named Jarrah spoke up. A young man with a head of wavy shoulder-length hair. Red shot him a look that made him shrink in his seat, pulling his blue bandana low over his face.

She took a deep, steady breath, gauging the situation, calculating her next move.

“Look,” she began, “Whatever arrangement you two have, we hope it works out. If anyone asks, we don't know anything.” With her foot planted firmly in the dirt to push off, she looked about ready to book it.

Roadhog put a hand up. “How,” he said plainly.

“News travels fast,” was her quick reply. She was on the same page as Roadhog at least. “Drove by Scraptown a few days ago. Saw the damage. Innkeeper was long gone by then.”

 _And hopefully waiting for a ferry to head out of the country by now_ , Roadhog thought.

“I'm a woman of my word,” she added, holding her palm up, “We won't tell a soul. Anyone in town who may know probably already knew long before we did. Now, we really should be on our way.”

“What’s the rush,” Roadhog asked, deadpan, for both Junkrat’s sake and his own curiosity. The smaller man looked just as conflicted as Red was, and Roadhog wanted to get to the bottom of this.

For the first time that day, Red’s composed demeanour began to fade away, revealing hints of nervousness and unsurety. It was fight or flight, and she had no reason to choose the former, yet something kept her and her group from just speeding off and letting the pair eat their dust. Her fingers tapped anxiously against the worn rubber of the dirt bike’s handlebars.

“We’ll be late,” she pointed to the sandrails, “The girls must be brought back to their guardian before all else.”

Roadhog nodded slowly. Her answer was both vague and straight to the point. He could give her credit for that. “Alright.”

“Always did bother to keep track of time, huh Red,” Junkrat murmured.

Roadhog saw her tense up. Her gaze flickered to Junkrat, searching, contrite. Her scarred face took on a solemn expression. The look in her eyes said, plain as day, _I'm sorry_.

Red blinked. “We’ll take our leave now.” She paused, mulling something over. “If you two still wish to speak to us later, we’ll usually be at the Parlor for the next few days.” Finally, tipped her head to them, “Good luck, gentlemen.”

The pair merely watched as the family set off towards town, opposite to where Roadhog was headed, kicking up dust and debris as they left the outskirts, and their old friend, behind. Red took up the end this time, closely following her brothers as they led the way.

Roadhog peered down at Junkrat. He was met with that same vacant look. Silent. Contemplative. His glazed-over, amber eyes stared at the eagle wings across the back of Red’s jacket, until the group became small specks in the distance.

Much to both of their surprise, Junkrat was the first to speak up.

“Let's go,” he sighed.

Roadhog had never seen him so… defeated.

The big man tentatively patted the rat’s shoulder. An awkward form of reassurance. He's never been good with words.

Junkrat hardly reacted to the gesture. Roadhog was glad for that. The smaller man twitched slightly when the heavy hand returned to its place on the handlebar, but that was it. “Get us in there, ‘Hog.”

The outskirts of town had always been eerily quiet. They passed scattered, dilapidated trailers and shacks as they rode through the winding dirt roads. None of them really stood out, until Roadhog caught sight of a gaudy orange roof in the far distance.

Junkrat made a small, sad noise; close to a whimper. He must've seen it too.

Roadhog brushed away the fleeting thought of visiting Junkrat’s old home.

_Enough._

No more stalling _for_ him. It was about time that he _did_ his damn _job_.

Driving through the bustling dirt streets was slow and tedious. Idle or parked vehicles occupied much of the space and had to be avoided, least a fight broke out over scuffing someone’s paint. Pedestrians never took kindly to being rushed or honked at as they trudged along and often blocked the path. Street vendors occupied almost every turn, calling out to passersby and urging them to purchase their wares. Goods could range from goanna kebobs to ancient kitchen appliances to actual military grade weaponry, all situated along just one block before a Junker would be bombarded by another row of sellers along the next street over. Those underground criminal city traders that often drove down here were clearly plentiful these days.

All in all, Junkertown certainly lived up to its name as the busiest and most populated Junker settlement in the Outback.

Some folks stopped and stared as the beast of a chopper made its way through the maze of buildings and people. They kept their distance, knowing better than to stop and talk to the infamous enforcer. Roadhog, used to the gawking by now, ignored them, while Junkrat curled up to make himself appear smaller. Less noticeable. Roadhog’s arms were so massive that Junkrat could easily avoid detection on all sides aside from the front.

The scavenger was being quiet again, but he at least put in the effort to hide his peg leg and face under the blanket. It was already a miracle that Wally Wallaby and his crew hadn't recognized him. The old man’s eyes weren't as sharp as they used to be. Still, neither ‘Rat or ‘Hog wanted to take the chance of some random Junker passing them on the street and making the connection.

Plus, the job ad and wanted posters described Junkrat as the Mad Bomber; a man with buggy eyes and a wide, devilish grin. Perhaps they were on the lookout for _him_.

Junkrat didn't smile so wide these days.

Aside from the whole "most of the Outback is out to kill him" thing, Roadhog couldn't help but wonder why.

He looked so different from the man pictured in the weather-beaten flyers spotted along the streets. Paranoid. Tired. Frailer.

Halfway into town, Roadhog felt a tap on his arm. He glanced down to find two faintly glowing eyes staring up at him through the shadows of the improvised cloak. The rat was practically curled up by this point, with his legs folded and his knees pulled up to his chest.

“We headed to the Dugouts?” Junkrat whispered.

“Yeah,” Roadhog said in a low voice. “Quiet. Keep your head down.”

A patched-up soccer ball rolled down the busy street, slowing to a stop smack dab in the middle of the lane and right in front of them. Two scrappy young boys ran after it, weaving through the carts and people. They both got their hands on the ball at the same time and began to fight over it, trying their hardest to tug it from each other’s grip.

“Piss off I got it first!”

“You're a damn liar and you know it!”

Roadhog merely sighed at the children’s bickering. He coughed to get their attention.

The two stared up at the behemoth, mouths hanging open and eyes wide in both shock and esteem. “Roadhog!” They called out in unison. “You’re back!”

“Yeah,” he grunted out, slightly surprised at their enthusiasm.

“Did ya find him?” Asked one of the boys. A twig of a kid. Bald. Dark brown skin. Clothes that were a few sizes too big hung off his frame.

“Yeah, yeah, did ya find the Ratman?” The other one chimed in. A toothpick, too. Red, wavy hair. Olive skin. Dressed the same.

Roadhog stared at their curious faces, then at the unmoving bundle of fabric in front of him, housing the curled up man. Coiled like a snake. It didn't even look like there was a nearly 7 foot person under there. Uncanny. Was Junkrat even breathing? “No,” he lied.

“Awww,” they said, slumping over.

“Thought you wouldn’t be back until you did,” said the bald one.

“Restocking on supplies,” Roadhog replied. It was a truth in and of itself.

“Oh, well, hope you find him soon, Mr. Roadhog. Word on the street is that the treasure he found is real valuable you know,” said the red one.

The bald one grinned. “Yeah! Our Ma said that the money he would get from a buyer would be enough to feed the town for a whole year!”

“More or less,” the red one shrugged. “Just a rumour, as far as we know.”

Roadhog nodded, wishing the conversation would end. He didn’t mind whenever children stopped and chatted with him; it was just the timing of this particular moment. Fortunately, they weren't blocking traffic. This was one of the lesser travelled streets, and Roadhog (Junkrat, too) was the only one to experience the temporary barricade.

Though not for long, as a frantic woman pushed passed the crowd of people browsing through the goods of a nearby vendor.

“Scratch! Kick!”

Roadhog quickly recognized her as the resident tattoo artist, head of Junkertown’s Tattoo Parlor. She jogged down to where the kids were gazing up at the mountain of a man and quickly wrapped a protective arm around them. “Boys,” her tone was soft but stern, “Don’t bother the enforcer.”

Must've been Ma.

She was close to his age, judging by first hints of laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. Probably a few years younger. She didn't have as many scars as he did. While his were small and scattered, hers were few and harsh. One ran across her nose bridge and one cut down the left corner of her mouth. The youth on her face was seeped away by time and hardship. She was of Asian descent. Indonesian, he guessed. The green  _jilbab_ wrapped around her head was a clear indication.

“Awww but Ma-aaaaa,” the two whined.

“No ifs, ands, or buts,” she scolded. “He’s a busy man and should be on his way.”

He tipped his head to her, “Afternoon, Cobra.” She looked like she ran a marathon, with her dust-covered sandals and heavy breathing.

She repeated the motion back to him with a steely gaze, “Roadhog.”

He glanced down at the boys again, their wide eyes never faltering with what he could've mistaken as awe. “Nice kids.”

Cobra nodded, “Hardheaded, though. Told them to stay close to the Parlor.” She pinched their cheeks as she said this, making them giggle and try to squirm out of her grasp. “Had to run all the way across town to come get you boys. Would it kill you two to listen to me?”

“Yep,” they chimed.

She sighed deeply, “I’m serious now. Don’t stray off too far from home anymore. Makes me worried sick.”

“Sorry, Ma,” they said with their heads hung low. “Won't do it again.”

“Good,” she patted their heads, “Go wait for me on the curb. Stay put until I come get you. Got that?”

They grinned and saluted her, “Got it!” The boys waved goodbye to Roadhog as they left, “Bye, Mr. Roadhog!”

Roadhog waved back. Both adults kept watch until the kids were safely settled, opting to sit side-by-side on an old crate propped up against the grimy wall of a nearby corner store, chattering and laughing while they waited for their guardian. The soccer ball they’d previously been arguing over was now placed between them, each boy resting a hand on its peeling surface.

The tattoo artist still stood in his way, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Scrutinizing him, no doubt. “Was hoping we'd cross paths."

Roadhog tilted his head.

"I have a job for you." 

She had his full attention.

Cobra’s expression changed from stony to distraught. She leaned in and spoke quietly. “My girls. They’ve been taken. My arsehole Ex is fuckin’ despicable and if he were still alive I’d want you to curb stomp him and his cronies.”

A leather glove creaked as Roadhog gripped the handlebars tighter. He knew of Cobra’s nurturing nature; her habit of taking in orphaned street children and giving them a roof over their heads and food on their plates. Anger directed at the kidnappers boiled his blood. _Scum_. “No luck finding them, I’m assuming," the words tasted bitter on his tongue.

“No, _Allah_ , it’s been almost two months. I sent others to find them but no results. Only news that his body was left limbless in the middle of the desert and most of his accomplices were blown up to smithereens. My girls were not among the casualties. I would go and hunt down the bastards myself but I can’t leave my other kids behind. You’re the best Tracker in town and I need your help getting them back,” she pulled out a roll of bills - civvie currency, real valuable. “I’m willing to pay whatever it takes.”

Roadhog took a deep breath to calm himself, long enough to have a proper negotiation. “Money later. Gonna need a description first.”

“No need,” she pulled out her wallet and showed Roadhog a picture of two smiling girls, “The ten year old is Inala, the six year old is Allora.”

Roadhog took a long, hard look at the photograph.

He’s seen them before.

All the rage and concern he felt dissipated to join the arid air.

“You can use their real names when talking to them,” she continued. “Might make them more willing to come back home with you if they’re scared. When you find them, tell them Mama sent you.” The hand holding the picture began to tremble, her voice hitching, “I hope my girls are okay.”

The girls _were_ okay, and their guardian had no idea they were back in town.

She reached into her coat pocket again and took out a pamphlet with _Australian Sign Language_ written in bold letters. “Inala is deaf, so this will come in handy. She uses Auslan, but there is also a section on-”

Roadhog put a heavy hand on her shoulder, “Warlpiri,” he said.

She blinked, “Uh, yes. Yes, she uses _Rdaka-rdaka_.” Her steely gaze returned, “How did you know that?”

Before he could assure the woman of her children’s safety, the blanket stirred.

Junkrat sat up, effectively startling both of them. Like he appeared from thin air instead of actually being there the whole time. Cobra gasped and took a few steps back. The fact that he was using the blanket as a cloak added to the eeriness of it all.

The scrawny man stared wide-eyed at the tattoo artist, and she stared right back at him as he spoke. “We know where your girls are.”


	23. An Unexpected Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thought was always there, in the back of his mind, too far to reach until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the release of Wasted Land and The Plan this fic is no longer canon compliant (really it never was) but BUT just hear me out, I have...... ideas, both on paper and floating around. Incorporate fanon and canon, yenno. Like I said before, this fic's gonna be a doozy, and Blizz can fight me.

The night brought with it harsh winds, sending chills through the bundled desert dwellers atop the bed of a green pickup. They’d been on the road for three days now. Far, far away from the closest settlement.

Being out in the open when everyone should've been bunkered down indoors wasn’t ideal. The children were not only exposed to the elements, but also stuck under the close watch of the traitor’s accomplices. The oldest of the two was resilient. Opted to stay up for the night while her sister slept beside her. The younger child shivered under the thin blanket. Sniffled and squirmed as she tried to make do with laying on the smooth, cold, metal bed of the truck. A small, gloved hand was placed on the girl’s cheek, wiping away the dampness that streaked down her face.

She had cried herself to sleep.

A sharp clang from the other end of the truck made the older girl jolt. She couldn’t hear it. No, she felt it. Reverberating, rippling through the metal and tingling her fingertips. She looked up and locked eyes with a sneering man. One of the cronies. His spiky green hair flopped wildly in the wind, lips moving rapidly, and she squinted to read them.

“...Oi! Are you even listening, kid? I’m talkin’ to ya. Haven’t spoken a damn word all night-”

The short, blue-haired, burly woman next to him smacked him hard on the shoulder. “She can’t hear, ya fuckin’ imbecile.”

“Whaddya mean-?”

The woman rolled her eyes and shook her head. “She’s _deaf_.”

The man’s face twitched. Snark turned into begrudging sheepishness. “Well I didn’t get the memo.”

“No one was gonna send you one.”

“Wasn't asking  _you_ -”

Another clang jolted the two bickering Junkers, this time coming from the side of the truck. The startled girl put a protective hand on her sister’s shoulder. A second man, older and scruffier, sat on the sidelines, leaning against the barrier with his hand flat against the floor. His brown bucket hat was tied tightly around his head to keep it from flying away. 

“Shut it,” he said to the adults. “Both of you.”

The woman glared but didn’t say another word, turning her attention to the fleeting scenery as it sped past them.

The first man, however, wasn’t as smart. “Was just talkin’ to the kid-”

Another clang. “Leave her alone.”

The green man shrunk back in his seat. With a huff, he settled down after that, grumbling to himself in a way that the older child couldn’t decipher.

The girl looked to her sister, who was still shivering as the nightly breeze chilled any exposed skin. She moved to take her jacket off, willing to give up her own warmth if it meant that the smaller child got to sleep better, when another vibration shook the bottom of the truck. She looked up, expecting another confrontation, only to find a single serve MRE packet at the end of her feet and a thick blanket messily folded underneath it. Wooly and warm, she quickly draped the old cloth over the younger girl, tucking her in, rubbing circles across her back to soothe her.

All three adults stared wearily at them. She didn’t know which one had tossed her the supplies. The brown MRE meal nudged the tip of her boot. Her stomach rumbled, wracking through her skinny, freezing frame. Before Mama gave them a roof over their heads, giving her sister the bigger portions of their rations had always been the norm. There was a good reason for that. She could ignore the pangs of hunger and the visibility of her ribs if it meant the smaller child got through the days with a fuller stomach.

The promise of food was tempting. Terribly tempting after only living off the bugs and lizards she and her sister caught during nightly rest stops, but she made no move to grab it. She refused to eat anything they gave to her.

Then the short blue woman raised her hands.

 _“I-N-A-L-A,”_ she signed each individual letter, “Right?”

The child, Inala, nodded slowly, taken aback. She made the assumption that her captors hadn't bothered to learn their names. Looked like she was wrong.

“ _Eat_ , _"_ the bucket man signed; index finger curled like a hook and tapping against his fuzzy chin.

Inala eyed the MRE packet. Reluctantly, she picked it up, turning it over in her hands. Made sure it was sealed, least someone tampered with its contents and slipped some poison in it. Or worse. Mama always warned them about that. Never did they accept food from strangers. And these people? Definitely strangers.

Beef casserole, it read. Awfully, terribly tempting. But she wasn't about to fall for it.

The green man shifted in his seat. He was talking again. She could barely make out what he was saying under the dim glow of the moon and green-tinted clouds.

“...Seen her slipping the smaller anklebiter the bigger bites of their catch. Give her another pack, cripesake.”

“That's the least stupid thing you've said all night,” the woman shot back with a snarky smile.

“Oi-!”

Their argument was cut short when another MRE packet slid across the bed of the truck. A spoon wrapped in tissue followed its path. Both items slowed to a stop at the girl’s feet. It was the older man that caught her gaze.

 _“Eat,”_ he signed again, mouthing the word too.

She frowned, arms remaining crossed around her chest. Why should she believe anything these people said or did?

The old man could sense her distrust. _“Safe,"_ he assured her; both hands flat as the back of the right one inwardly slid over the palm of the left. To prove his point, he beckoned for her to toss one of the MREs back. She did, no short of force, nearly pelting the man in the face. He caught it, though. Quick reflexes. A real shame. Then he tore through the packaging and tipped it over, pouring some of the meat into his palm. The sauce made a mess of his fingerless gloves, but he ate everything he got, nonetheless. He held out the open pack to her.

Huh. She had to admit, that was a convincing tactic.

Despite all her senses and survival instincts telling her otherwise, she carefully took the MRE, peeking inside just to make sure.

It _looked_ edible. _Smelled_ edible.

She swiped some sauce from the sides and placed the dollop on her tongue. _Tasted_ edible, too. Her eyes flicked up to look at them with stubborn suspicion.

“ _Eat,_ "he insisted. The other two followed suit, urging her to use the spoon. Pushy. Annoying. She was getting real tired of their nagging.  

“Fine,” she croaked out. Voice hoarse and brittle from the years of quiet, watching, observing. She rarely spoke, only doing so when she really wanted to prove or emphasize something.

It hurt to talk sometimes, scraping the sides of her throat like sandpaper, and it took the three by surprise.

“...Ain't as quiet as we thought,” Inala caught the green man saying. She rolled her eyes and ignored him. First she unwrapped the spoon, then dug into the packet, scooping some of the meat and vegetables up.

 _Here goes nothing_ , she grimaced, before closing her mouth around the food. She powered through that first spoonful, then another, and another, until only the empty packet remained. It was the most palatable meal she had since they'd lost sight of Junkertown. Hearty and filling. She read the front of the packaging again as she chewed on the last bite.

Beef casserole. Awfully, terribly tempting. But she didn't have much of a choice.

 

The family of raiders were parked at the entrance of the Parlor, exactly where the leader said they would be earlier that day, patiently waiting for the doors of the establishment to open. For a certain someone to return and let them in.

The adults spoke quietly amongst themselves. Chattered in the language one would find if they travelled further north-west from here. As they stood around one of the sandrails and planned their next steps, the girls sat together in the twin vehicle across from them, signing to each other and enjoying their own conversation. A warm smile graced Inala’s face whenever her sister’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

The younger girl giggled at her assortment of jokes and stories. In the midst of her laughter, her eyes began to drift off towards the other three, until her wide smile settled into a curious frown. Something caught her attention. Inala followed her stare.

The three siblings were tense. The eldest one, Red they called her, paced back and forth. Spiked boots scraped against the sand and rubble. Her brows furrowed in deep contemplation. Meanwhile, the brothers argued amongst themselves. Scowls and exaggerated movements indicated so. Both men looked about ready to throw fists, though the children knew that Blue and Yellow would never hit each other with actual malice.

Inala fixed her gaze on the leader. She could tell that the woman was trying to keep her composure. Keep her cool. Back and forth she paced. Back and forth, back and forth. She was supposed to be the level-headed one here. The responsible one. The one who knew what to do-

The pacing ceased.

In one swift movement, a bandaged fist struck the roof of the sandrail, startling the brothers and the children. An assertive gesture that got all their attention. All eyes on her.

The woman said something that made her brothers wince and shrink back. Her back was towards them, so Inala couldn't catch it, but the younger child did. She squirmed to sit closer to her sister and shook her shoulder. _Look down._ Inala peeled her gaze from the three, staring at the child’s hands while they moved.

“ _Wrong_ ,” she signed; pinky out, rotating her right fist in an outward motion, “ _S_ _he’s wrong_.”

Inala tilted her head. _What?_

“ _Dead_ ,” she pressed on; index and middle fingers pressed together like guns, and wrists bending forward. “ _She thought he was dead. He can't be dead._ ”

Inala's jaw locked at the mention of _him_. Her mouth set in a thin, impassive line. Her eyes told a different story. They held anger. The kind that was harbored and bottled up and left to spoil. She pointed at her chest. “ _Me_ ,” she insisted. “ _He’s dead to_ me.”

The younger child just shook her head. In stark contrast her eyes held pity and sadness. Her index finger rested on her cheek bone, moving outwards before turning into a thumbs up that she wiggled back and forth. Back and forth. “ _Saw him_ ,” she countered, “ _We saw him. He can't be dead_.”

Inala sighed at her sister’s words. She couldn't be mad at her. She was only stating the truth. The reality of their situation.

The older girl thought back to the message. The one that she begrudgingly gave to the pair at her sister’s request. A simple word that rarely served a use out here in the Wastes.

_Peace._

They meant no harm.

And that was a fact.

The younger girl forgave _him_ a long time ago. She was young and naive. Too kindhearted to hold a grudge.

But Inala wasn't as merciful as her sister. They've been left behind too many times turn a blind eye. She couldn't help it, the resentment buried deep in her heart, as the memories she tried so hard to forget came flooding back.

 

The big lug led the way back to the Parlor, clearing a path for Cobra and her boys to sprint through as they made the trip across town. Junkrat could hear the muffled crunching of footsteps behind them as the family did their best to catch up with the bike. The woman and her kids had stamina. Cobra wasn't kidding when she said that she ran from one end to the other.

Junkrat was still beneath the blanket, sweating under the stress of their circumstances and from the sweltering heat of the afternoon Outback sun. A dull ache throbbed in the back of his head. That same damn reminder. This time, though, he already figured out what his subconscious was trying to tell him.

It was always there, in the back of his mind, too far to reach until now.

Even to him it didn't make much sense. _None_ of this made _any_ damn sense. Either the masked Junkers that took his limb revealed their tactics wrong, or he’d misunderstood what they meant by _town._ Most likely the latter, honestly. Questions buzzed around in his frazzled brain. Which town? When did he skip it? What the _hell_ was he missing in all of this?

They hadn't been following him since _Junkertown_ , that much he began to understand. They appeared in his life long after that. But there was something in the middle. A lost piece to the puzzle. A gradual, slow, hazy recollection of memories, places, names, faces…

Faces.

Two faces, to be exact.

Young and smiling. Light laughter. Cold nights around the campfire spent sitting together for security.

It hit him all at once. A solid punch to the gut.

_How could you._

His intrusive thoughts turned on him now. Placed all the blame on no one but himself. Your fault. It was all your fault. You lost them. Left them behind to fend for yourself. No, you did it to protect them. But that's no _excuse._  Idiot. You _fucking_ idiot. How _dare_ you. How _could_ you? How could you _forget_ about them?

His breath caught in his throat. Bitter tears stung at his eyes and he tried, oh he tried, to blink them away. He wished the ache in his head would end because he _knew,_  he _remembered_ now, the minute he locked eyes with Cobra it all came back to him and he covered himself with the blanket before these people could see him cry. They were nearing the Parlor and the tears just kept coming, shaking his shoulders until a large hand rested on his chest. The weight and warmth were welcomed, even if the gesture was fleeting. A quiet reassurance. But it didn't change the fact that his own damn mind failed him again.

He hadn't only been gone for nearly a month.

No, he'd been out past the Gate for far longer than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midterm Season just ended, with only one left this coming Tuesday, so I'm hoping to get back to comments and questions sometime soon! Thanks so much for sticking with this story. Life's pretty hectic at the moment and I'm grateful for the support :D Have a great week folks


	24. From Ash and Rubble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working on those responses! Sorry about that, especially for those who have questions that need answering, just kinda been feelin' meh on a social scale, kinda overwhelmed by life in general. But it'll pass. Thanks for your patience folks.
> 
> I now dub this fic the "AU where Junkrat and Roadhog have friends, kinda"

The rest of the drive went without further discussion. Inala and her sister remained on their side of the truck, and the other three at the opposite end. The rest of them weren't far behind.

Five trucks in total, travelling in a straight line across the broken highways. Two vehicles up front. Two vehicles out back.

The ones leading suddenly veered off the road, across the rough terrain of sand and rocks, heading towards the jutting side of a small cave system on the horizon. Everyone else followed close. The four Junkers braced themselves. Clutched at the sides to avoid sliding around like unchained cargo. Inala wrapped an arm around her sleeping sibling to anchor her. She could feel every bump, every piece of rubble, as the bed of the truck rattled along.

They skidded to a halt near the mouth of the closest cave. A gloved hand gently shook the bundle of fabric that housed the younger girl. Inala had to wake her up once they parked and the three hopped off, knowing that they would be ushered along to join the rest of them as they set up camp for the night. When the child didn't move she shook her with just a little bit more force. The others would try and approach them soon enough if she didn't hurry.

“Allora,” she rasped, “Lora, wake up.”

Finally, the younger girl stirred. She yawned as she sat up, long and drawn out. Dark bags were earned from the previous restless nights. Inala grimaced. This was all wrong. Her sister was too young too look this old. Too happy to feel this much grief. Through bleary eyes Allora scanned their surroundings.

Darkness blanketed the sky. Fewer smog clouds drifted overhead. The moon occasionally peeked out from behind the covering of murky green and blue. Hardly any stars. Not a building in sight. No buildings meant no town. No town meant no Parlor. No Parlor meant-

The tears came, as expected, falling freely down the younger child’s cheeks. Carved wet tracks across her brown skin. Inala reached over to wipe down her face with her thumbs. Allora leaned into her chest and sobbed.

Inala felt the hum of her voice. She didn't need to read her lips to know the subject of her words.

“Mama.” Amidst her crying, Allora tried to stay quiet, to stay unnoticed. “Where is she, Ina? She‘s supposed to come looking for us.”

“Shhhh,” Inala smoothed down her hair and rubbed over her back. “She’ll find us, Lora. She will.”

“It's been days,” she whimpered, “We’ve gone so far.”

Too far from town. Couldn't see it anymore.

“She’ll find us.” Inala said a little too firmly. Gruffer than she intended. She wasn’t used to speaking so much, but for Allora she could always make an exception. She carefully pried the child’s face from her jacket and held her cheeks between her hands. “Sorry, Lora. Don't cry. Sorry.”

“J-just wanna go back,” Allora snivelled. “Go back h-home.”

“We will,” Inala hugged her tighter. There was a blur of movement in her peripheral. Some of the cronies were headed towards them, not the ones from earlier she noted, and were ready to pull them apart and out of the truck. She didn’t want to let her sister go. “We will. I promise you.”

Then they felt hands on their shoulders, prying and insisting, eager to rip them from each other’s grasp. No, not this time. There was strength in numbers. They weren’t going to separate them again.

It was hard to tell who was who in the shadows. Inala managed to claw someone across the face. She wouldn’t let up, refused to, yelling and thrashing as they lifted her out. A choppy hum buzzed in her chest. Grew more intense with every punch she threw. They were yelling back at her. But she didn’t care. No one else mattered. No one else but her sister.

Allora was still crying. Full on wailing now. The cronies yanked her backwards whenever she tried to run into Inala’s outstretched arms. They gripped her shoulders and her banshee screams made some of them wince and some of them shout back at her.

Inala shouted too, fought against them with all the strength she could muster, until a shattering _boom_ shook the earth.

  


“Told you two it was him.”

The young man’s voice rang out in Red’s ears, interrupting her tirade of thoughts. She shot a glare over her shoulder, only to be met with a defiant, almost challenging look on her brother’s face. There was no time or use for this. A frustrated huff was all he got out of her before she started pacing again. No use in arguing.

But he just kept going. Kept insisting that the man they saw was _him_. That the rumours and descriptions were true. Blond, burnt hair. Wild eyes. Piercing, cackling laughter. The elusive Mad Bomber running around with the treasure from the Omnium _had to be him_.

Their old friend.

Risen from the ashes.

Impossible.

“Jarrah,” the other young man clapped a hand over his twin’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”

“No, you know what - no,” he shrugged off his hand, voice slightly raising in volume, “Neither of you ever hear me out and I’m sick of it. Omeo, look me in the eyes and try to tell me that wasn’t him.”

“Never said that it wasn’t him,” Yellow raised his hands up in defense, “Just got caught off-guard. Thought he’d look a lot less...dishevelled.”

“Probably been out on his own for years,” Blue pointed out. “Stuck in this shithole for _years_ and we didn’t even know. Had to hear about him from the damn clean-up crew at Scraptown and everywhere else before that.” He laughed, sharp and scornful. “Should've known he’d just end up in Junkertown. We should’ve _known_. We should’ve kept _looking_.”

“We can’t blame ourselves for that. We haven't been back here in years, too,” Yellow said. “Remember? We spent days digging for survivors. _Days_ , Jarrah. Couldn’t stay there forever and get the brunt of rad-sickness. Even if we weren’t at the Core.” He hesitated before speaking up again. “We were just kids. We were lucky enough to find _you_ under all that metal. We-”

Blue brushed the curls from his face, revealing the glower directed at his twin. That shut Yellow up real quick. “Don’t make this about me.”

The air grew heavy at the mention of the incident years ago. Both men stood taut, fists clenched, ready to strike.

“Kinda hard to do since you got stuck down there, too,” Red muttered, breaking the silence before it stretched on for too long, snarky and disgruntled. “Affected you, too. Can't forget that. Affected you, him, all of us.”

She still remembered that day. When her world was taken from her a second time. Smoke and dust that filled her lungs. The haunting litany of screams and cries that ran dizzying circles in her head. Debris and gnarled remains that cut her palms and knees deep. Days. They were out there for days. Cooking under the unforgiving sun as she, Omeo, and some of the others searched for the trapped ones.

Jarrah had been one of them.

 _He_ had been one of them, too.

It had been _his_ idea, she later found out, after they nursed Jarrah back to health. Her brother was just foolish enough to go along with him.

“Don’t be the one to talk, Karri,” Blue jabbed a finger at her. She was still pacing, wouldn't look his way, and it pissed him off. “ _You_ didn’t even give him the time of day. You saw the look in his eyes when he called out to you and all you could say was 'There’s no time'? Really. What the _hell_ is your deal?”

“Jarrah,” Yellow hissed through clenched teeth. “That’s enough.”

“Haven’t seen that flaming fool in over a decade and all you could do in the moment was make up some bullcrap excuse-”

“You're not helping-”

“No, let her speak, Omeo. I wanna hear what she has to say-”

“The girls, remember? We needed to bring them back home. That's on the top of our list right now,” Yellow placed himself between them. Always the mediator. “Once that's done, once Cahya comes back and opens up shop, we can find him again. See him again.”

“Not good enough,” Blue grit out. “Too late now. They’re probably heading up the Dugouts to get an audience with _Her Royal Majesty_ since the Mayors are out who-knows-where doing who-knows-what.”

Red and Yellow tensed up. Wally Wallaby did say that the Mayors should be back in a few days. Meanwhile, their second in command should be back in at least two. Ol’ Queenie was a last resort, unless the ex-Enforcer and the Mad Bomber really wanted the money. Front and centre. Pronto.

If the pair knew any better, then they’d hold off on seeing _her_ for as long as possible.

But Blue wasn’t finished yet.

“Why do you always take her side?”

“I'm not taking anyone’s side!” Yellow couldn’t hide his stammering.

Bullshit. Oh, Blue was mad now, seizing his twin up and getting in his face. “Why does Karri always get to play boss, huh? Why does she always get to have the last word?” His voice was getting louder by the second. “Why do we always gotta go along with whatever she says?”

“Maybe ‘cause her ideas are actually planned out,” Yellow clenched his fists, actually and genuinely frustrated. “None of that _run-in-guns-blazing_ shite that you do. Maybe she actually knows what she’s doing!”

Anger and chagrin burned across Blue’s cheeks. “Oh really now?”

“ _Yeah_ , Jarrah. Some of the stuff you pull is just - _ugh_. That plan to sneak up on the Enforcer almost-"

“You’re a hypocrite,” Blue hissed. “Can’t pin that on just me. _You_ had just as much of a part in it-”

“Yeah, I did, but I _never_ agreed to cut the guy off. It was _your_ rail that almost crashed them!”

“You were having a grand old time! Laughed right along with me the whole way through!”

“Until we confirmed that it _was him_.”

“Wasn’t going to actually hit them. Just wanted to test how deadly the big guy really is,” Blue insisted. “I’m a damn good driver-”

“You could’ve gotten Inala and yourself killed!”

From the corner of her eye, Red saw the girls stir at the mention of the eldest one’s name. They stared at the men from the other sandrail. Curious young faces observed their bickering in stunned silence. The girls hated when they fought. Especially the littler one.

Unfortunately, they tended to bicker on an almost daily basis. So, a lot. After spending over twenty years crossing the wasteland with them, Red could definitely vouch for that.

 _Idiots_ , she thought. While she appreciated Yellow defending her, and didn’t give a toss about Blue calling her into question, both her brothers were equal parts insufferable at the worst of times.

That was it.

In one swift movement, Red brought her fist down onto the roof of the sandrail. Not enough to dent it. Just enough to get the message across. _Shut up_. _Both of you._

Her brothers winced at the sound and pursed their lips shut. They’ve seen what those bloodied fists could do. Seen her knock plenty of teeth out and cave in many-a-faces before. They knew she was bluffing. Red would never.

Still, the idea of fisticuffs with their sister dearest was better left undone.

“Well?” Blue huffed, daring, once he got over the initial shock. “Say something.”

The _nerve_ -

“You really wanna know what _I_ think, huh?” Red practically growled.

Her brothers’ faces had equal parts unease and determination written all over them. They maintained eye contact, not backing down even for a second, though no words came forth. She had their full attention.

Red took a deep breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The airful whistled through her gritted teeth. The words that left her were strained. Missing the bravado she failed to convey in that moment. It hurt to even utter them.

“A man doesn’t just rise from the grave.”

A man didn’t spend over a decade being dead and gone. To have them believe that he was forever trapped in the bones of the Omnium, only to have spontaneously survived, emerging from the wreckage short of two limbs and with a treasure worth killing for.

There was a wavering flicker in her brother’s eyes. Yellow didn’t say anything, instead looking down at the ground and at his boots. Blue huffed again and planted his gloved hands onto the sandrail’s roof, joining his sister’s iron fist. “You saw him. We all saw him. The girls were _with-_ ”

A deep breath. Rinse and repeat.

“A man doesn’t-”

Blue’s hands slammed down onto the hot metal. “ _He’s not dead, Karri._ ”

There was a moment when Blue looked like he regretted that outburst, when the fire in his eyes threatened to fizzle out, but it didn’t last long. He held his ground, held firm to his belief, and all Red could do was sigh. She couldn’t even bring herself to be mad.

Not at Jarrah… not at _him_ , either.

For a long time, she _was_ mad. At both of them. At the Omnium and its secrets. At the whole damn world.

But not anymore. Not at them, at least. 

Instead, she silently thanked the greater powers that her brothers’ flames hadn’t gone out.

It was why she found it so hard to believe that their friend was still alive. The man that called out to her earlier was so unlike the boy she once knew.

It _was_ him. She couldn’t deny that anymore. But...

There was no light in his eyes. His fiery nature laid dormant. Put to rest.

That scared her the most.

She couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life he’d lived all these years.

“Well?” Blue said quietly, “Say something.”

Right.

“...You two… always were the same,” Red said, placing her hands on his. She felt his fingers twitch, but he didn’t move away. “Always so alike.”

Always causing a ruckus. Always full of hope. Always searching for something better than what this life had to give them.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I… I miss him, too.”

She missed all of them. Anyone they’ve ever gained and lost.

Blue sighed and looked down at where their hands met. “I should be the sorry one here.” All his frustration seemed to melt away. “I stepped outta line. I know you’re just trying to protect us. But… we ain’t kids anymore. You don’t have to do it alone, sis. Never had to.”

The heat that radiated from their palms grew warmer when Yellow joined the stack. He stood next to his twin and gently cupped his siblings’ hands. He caught Red’s gaze and offered her a small smile. “Let us help, too. As a ‘thank you’ for all these years. Okay?”

She blinked and stared at her brothers. Through thick and thin they stuck together. They were no longer boys. All grown up. But still carefree and spirited.

Before they could even blink, Red hopped over the sandrail and pulled them into a hug, smothering yet comforting.

The twins were idiots, she thought fondly, but they were her idiots.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Yeah, okay.”

It'll all be okay. 

It had been a while since they’ve shown such familial affection. They all settled into it. Stood there and embraced until they were forced to pull away.

In the distance, the rolling rumble of an approaching engine, plus the crunching of frantic footsteps, jolted the group from their conversations. Red broke off from the twins to approach the commotion.

She was immensely relieved when she saw the very three Junkers they've been waiting for. The boys ran alongside their guardian. The little menaces tried their best to keep up and we’re doing just fine.

Red’s heart skipped a few beats when her gaze finally landed on the tattoo artist. The older woman’s faraway figure was haloed by the Sun’s rays. Even while sprinting like a cheetah, sandals and long coat dusted with sand, she was absolutely stunning. Always stunning.

It’s been too long.

Her Love was going to be so happy to see the girls again.

Then the dust around them settled and she tensed, practically did a double take, when she saw the _pair_ , of all people, trailing behind her girlfriend and the kids.

There they were, seated on the monster of a motorcycle, driving towards the storefront.

She didn’t expect them back so soon.

  


They found a man in the caves.

They dragged him, kicking and screaming. One crony gripping him tight on each arm as they wrangled him out into the open.

The moonlight fell over his face, and Inala froze.

A little piece of home. Right there, in the flesh.

He was still terribly skinny. Inala would’ve called him emaciated if it wasn't for the layer of lean muscles stretched over his towering frame. Dirt and grime covered his skin. Smoke and dust and gunpowder wafted from his head of patchy blond hair.

She never personally spoke to him. Only met him in passing whenever he stopped by their Mama’s shop to trade for her paints and crafts. Never said a single word to him. In turn, he left her and her sister alone, often with nothing more than a simple wave of goodbye.

Maybe that was why she found it so hard to move.

Two sides of reasoning pulled at her - fight for a man they hardly knew, or flee while their captors were mostly distracted - and left her planted in place.

They managed to land a few punches on him back in the cave. Blood freely ran down from his nose. An amber eye was beginning to swell shut. He looked a lot more feral compared to the last time she saw him. All gnashing teeth and thrashing limbs. Like a caged, cornered animal.

He hadn’t noticed her or her sister.  

Yet.

The traitor wasn’t far behind. The edges of his long, thin coat and the tips of his boots were singed. But that was it. That was all the damage the self-proclaimed demolitions expert could inflict before the rest swarmed in to subdue him and wrench him from his hiding place.

Inala felt a tug on her jacket. She tore her gaze from the scene, only to be met by her sister’s worried stare.

“ _Rat_ ,” Allora signed; her right index and middle fingers crossed while she traced whiskers over one side of her face. Back and forth, back and forth. Her mouth wobbled, her grasp on Inala’s side tightened, and she buried her head into the patchy fabric.

The sight scared her. She couldn’t watch. 

Inala wished she didn’t look up.

They forced him to the ground and held him down. The traitor marched up to where he laid, struggling on the sand, and raised his boot before swiftly kicking him across the ribcage. The sound the man made must've been horrible, a pained and broken howl, because Allora shuffled closer to her and started crying again. The cronies moved away from him at the traitor’s instruction. His lanky frame writhed as he curled in on himself.

Then the metal barrel of a shotgun pressed against the man’s temple.

The traitor loomed over him, threatening to pull the trigger, and that was the final straw. Inala let out an angry, piercing scream that resonated into the night.

Fight it was.


	25. Lost then Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First update of the new year, whoo! With 2018 comes a new set of New Year's Resolutions. Said resolutions include finally replying to comments and questions oml, apologies for the procrastination folks. Second semester started up and I'm finally getting into the swing of things, sort of. I'm sitting through a 3 hour not-mandatory presentation tomorrow so I'll do my best to finally get those done. Thanks so much for bearing with me and sticking with this story <3 Best wishes for 2018 ^-^

Everything had been going so well.

Relatively speaking, that is. Up until that first punch to the eye.

Things got a little hazy after that.

“Move an inch,” a distant voice growled, “and I'll pull it.”

They'd aimed for the vitals, that was for certain. Could barely see through one eye. Could taste the iron tang of blood flowing from a crooked nose.

It hurt to breathe.

“You’re that idiot. Poked around in the Omnium. Landed himself in some deep shit.” The words were low. Muffled. Punctuated by a gun barrel jabbing into bruised skin. “Aren’t you?”

Hell if anyone could anyone answer with a boot digging into their jaw-

“Junk. Rat.” The man tested out, rolling the moniker around. The worn down sole pressed down harder. Cheek caught in sharp canines. “Junkrat. Know all about you, mate. Seen the posters. Figured you’d put up more of a fight.”

Goddamn it, just-

“ _Off._ ” It came out a gasping wheeze.

But the request remained ignored. Hands gripping long limbs squeezed tighter. Anchored to earth. Caught. Trapped. Panic. Junkrat would let out a cackle if he could. Would swing out and catch one of these drongos in the nose. To defend himself. To grant his ears the sound of breaking bones.

One kick with his peg and _bam,_ bye bye _shitheads_ -

“Let him go.”

Through the murk of his frantic thoughts, he saw them. Behind the narrow opening of a swollen eye, there were two little ones among the circling crowd.

The taller girl was all teeth and fists. She pushed her way past the Junkers that blocked her path. Ushered the smaller, visibly scared child through the gap. Kept a protective arm around her shoulders as they approached.

“Let him go,” the smaller child said again, voice shaking yet stern. Louder this time. The fact that these kiddies were nowhere near the skewed safety of a Settlement was… alarming. Filled Junkrat’s veins with adrenaline. Made his blood boil.

“Girls,” the man cooed. Gravel to silk. The gun dug deeper despite the softness behind his tone. “Get back-”

“No,” the older one rasped. Held her ground. “Let him up.”

“ _Girls_ ,” he growled. Whatever persona he was trying to keep up melted away in an instant. “I’m _tired_ of _fighting_. Now you _listen_ -”

“We’ll go with the group,” the older child pressed on. “To the Coast.”

The pressure on the rat’s head let up just the slightest. The man seemed to consider this. Junkrat dreaded it. _The Coast_? Of all people going in the same direction as him-

“No arguments. You let him go,” she took a deep, resigned breath. Like she’d accepted their fate. Junkrat didn't like the sound of that. “We go with you.”

“Just don't hurt him,” the smaller one whimpered.

Small brown eyes locked with amber ones. Pleading.

Junkrat forced himself to take a breath, and suddenly the crushing weight to his face was gone. Then his torso, arms, legs. Finally free. Replaced by the cool caress of wind to his bare skin.  

Then small, calloused hands cupped his jaw. Trailed over his features to check for bruises and cuts. Finding any was no trouble. Two young, worried faces came into limited view, looming over him. He tried for a split-lipped smile. Sharp teeth stained with blood. The younger one began to sob.

“Take the girls someplace warm. Let him up, at some point,” the cloaked man commanded the rest. Walked away like it was nothing. “He's coming with us.”

 

 

 

Even from a distance, the pair could see them, clear as day. Could feel the collective relief as the two groups joined together. Reunited.

The boys pulled ahead from their guardian and were the first to reach the band of raiders. They practically jumped the twins, cheering all the while, and hugged their favourite uncles. Their only uncles, really. But their favourite uncles nonetheless, as the rat and hog learned on the way here amidst childish chatter. The young men laughed and hugged the kids back, twirling them around in circles, then gently set them down so they could go and greet their favourite aunt.

Red crouched down to their height, arms held out, bracing herself as the menaces affectionately rushed her. She scooped the boys up and held them close. Grinned while they talked her ear off. They climbed her sturdy frame like a Mother Tree. She was evidently strong enough to deal with both kids while they perched on her shoulders. A game they've played countless times before. They eventually wiggled out of her steadying grasp around their waists and climbed back down to hang from her arms. Swung back and forth, back and forth, while she chuckled and stayed rooted in place, undeterred by their rowdiness.

The pair observed from afar. The air around them sweltered, heavy and humid. Roadhog eased up on the gas. He sensed the rat tense, shoulders locking up, trembling underneath the makeshift cloak.

Large hands gently squeezed the brakes. The bike slowed to a stop.

They watched.

There was Cobra and the girls. The sisters emerged from the sandrail and ran straight into their guardian’s open arms. Their knees dug into the hot sand as the three held onto each other and wept. Not out of sadness, but of relief. Finally together again after months filled with worry and uncertainty.

 _“Mama,”_ they cried. _“Mama we missed you. Waited for you everyday. Waited for you to find us.”_

_“I know, girls. I know. I never stopped thinking about you. I should've done better. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”_

The sisters stood to be at eye-level, and wrapped their arms around Cobra’s shoulders, burying their tear-stained faces in soft, green fabric. _“Just happy to see you again, Mama.”_

 _“My darlings,”_ Cobra sniffed, hugging them closer. _“Welcome home.”_

Both men hadn’t seen anything like this in a long, long time.

“They’re good kids.”

The big guy glanced over when he heard the other man’s soft rasp. If the wind were any stronger, he would’ve missed it.

“Always were the quiet types,” Junkrat said, slow and wavering. _Bit like you, ‘Hog,_ couldn’t help but cross his mind. “But they're tough… Kind… Just like their mum.” God, where was this even coming from? He took a shuddering breath. Forced the air back into his lungs. Felt pricks at the corners of his eyes. No, not now. Not here.

But the thoughts kept forming, jumbling together in the crevices and surfacing, spilling past his lips despite himself.

“Held up pretty well out there. They’re just kids and they’re strong. Stronger than I'll ever be.”

In that moment, Roadhog understood. Junkrat spoke about them with such fondness. He’d played a part in these girls’ lives. To what extent, though, he didn't know.

Neither of them knew.

“Everyone’s strong in some way,” Roadhog found himself murmuring. He wasn’t the one who decided on those words. But they felt right to say in order to fill the arid silence. To calm the smaller man. “Just need to find that way.”

The remark settled. Junkrat twisted around, looked at him, wide-eyed yet weary, as if to say something, only to end up turning back, shrinking even smaller in his seat. A noise of agreement was all he could manage. 

Still, they watched.

The boys had long since dropped down from their swinging, instead ushering Red towards the rest of the group. The twins did their best to comfort the tattoo artist and her children. Cobra wasn't having it though, and just pulled them in to join the hug, smiling through the tears. The boys latched on to their guardian and introduced themselves to their new siblings once the waterworks began to subside.

All the while, Red hovered around the group. Kept guard while everyone else caught up. She was eyeing the pair. They were certain about that. Daring them, almost.

The scrutiny didn't last long. Hands gently cupped her waist. Startled, she spun around to face the culprit and was immediately greeted by the press of lips against her own. All the tension in her nerves ebbed away, replaced by a warm feeling of contentment, while she held the woman she loved in her arms.

Among the remains and shanty buildings, they were happy.

Junkrat didn't want to ruin that.

“Let’s go, ‘Hog.”

Roadhog nodded. Relieved. The weight on his chest lifted as he turned the bike around.

Right. Back to town. Needed to sort things out from here.

 

 

 

“You sure missed me,” Red teased when they broke apart.

Cobra scowled. “Karri Napaltjarri Redstone.” Uh oh. Full names. Never a good sign. “Three months. Three whole months without seeing your face in person. Damn it.”

“M’sorry, Cahya.” _Darling. Sweetheart._ “Would've gotten here sooner if it wasn't for sheer luck. Found the littluns at one of the unnamed sites when we passed by. Pretty shaken up but safe. Went straight here afterwards.”

“Last time we talked you three were in Adelaide. Thought you were busy with the business. Should've just called the Redstone Siblings to begin with.” Cobra hugged her closer. “Could've gotten the girls back sooner.”

“They’re back now. Safe and sound. All that matters.”

“Right.” Cobra bit her lip and chanced a glance at the children, all sitting together in a circle and lounging about, chatting and signing with their uncles. “These kids deserve so much better than this.”

The breeze picked up. Red held the edges of her girlfriend’s jilbab in place. “I know, Love, I know. But the chances aren't looking so good at either end of the scale. The Coast has its own problems to deal with.”

Cobra sighed and shook her head. “Something shady’s going on here, Darl. Up passed the Dugouts. In the Dome. In the bloody _Core_ , especially. Folks down here are getting sicker and sicker each day.” She glared at the outline of the town’s centre, elevated on a massive, glorified outcrop. “The higher-ups are either clueless or hiding something.”

“We can leave if you want. All of us together. There's enough room on your rig. My brothers and I can follow behind and keep watch.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Cobra cupped her jaw, tracing the angles. “Still gotta thank the rat and the hog for leading us to you lot.”

Red frowned. Oh. As it turned out, going their separate ways from the pair worked out for them in the end. Though she couldn't help but feel guilty.

Shit. She’d almost missed her chance. In all the previous excitement, all she could do was stare at them. Stunned. Reluctant. Unsure of how to approach them. Approach _him_ , most of all.

Cobra looked out into the horizon. Peered through the dust clouds as they dissipated. A look of worry crossed her face. Red followed her line of sight. Tried to push down that sinking feeling.

It was too late.

They were already gone.

Headed straight for the Dugouts, if the speck in the distance was anything to go by. The deep rumble of a motorcycle was all that remained. Growing fainter, getting further, until the wind carried them away.


	26. Loyalties

The rat was still. Unnervingly so for the entire trip back.

A part of Roadhog relished in it. The lack of aimless chatter. This long stretch of effortless silence that he scarcely received these days.

Another part argued that it wasn’t the comfortable type.

Quiet. Much too quiet. Shouldn’t have mattered to him. Once upon a time, he wouldn’t have given Junkrat’s mood swings a second thought.

But in this moment, he did. It mattered.

Witnessing the reunion stirred a certain man’s grave. Distant memories from a lifetime ago threatened to resurface. Large knuckles turned white in the effort of keeping himself grounded. Back to the present. Though one thought incessantly buzzed around in his head, up until they crossed the penumbra’s threshold.

There was more to the rat than meets the eye.

The massive outcrop stood tall and sturdy. Rock walls loomed over the ground level citizens and shadowed the surrounding shrubbery that managed to thrive under the harsh conditions. Sitting on top was another barrier, the source of and possible solution to all their problems. Their very own modern day Citadel.

Roadhog gave a quiet huff. The folks up there didn’t like him much. Not the biggest fans of his visits. And with the posters strewn about town, they didn’t like Junkrat much either.

Lucky for them, he wouldn’t be setting foot at the peak. They wouldn’t. At least not today.

No, they were headed under.

He took his time wading through the cover of bush and flora. They had all of two days to get their act together. To formulate a concrete Plan B. Though his gaze couldn’t help but flick downwards, watching the shade of leaves cast scattering shapes over the rat’s curled self. Unmoving. Not a single twitch. Small and much too quiet.

 _Give him time,_ murmured a soft, patient baritone. Against his better judgement, Roadhog left him be. Let the man grieve for now. He squared his shoulders as they approached the Junkers guarding the entrance this shift.

They got by easy with Wally. A rather beneficial surprise for them, he’d thought, when they were first greeted down at the Gate. Poor old man and his crew probably got the short end of the stick this time, having to stay out in the blazing sun all day. Fortunately, the chummy geezer never gave travellers and visitors too much trouble as long as he could engage in some friendly chit-chat. Though the same often couldn’t be said for the others in the rotation.

“You got a lotta nerve showin’ up here, ‘Hog.”

Speaking of.

The group parted down the middle as their leader stepped forward, eyeing the big man with nothing short of a sneer. This bunch was chattier, in a much better mood compared to the saps that had to spend this shift all the way at the edge of the canyon. A hush fell over them with a wave of the gatekeeper’s hand.

“Got here a little too late. Or too early.” Even in the shade there was a glint in her glass eye. “Whichever way you wanna see it.”

“I heard,” was all Roadhog said.

“Yeah, well you’re just outta luck- _wait_ ,” Muds blinked. “You heard?”

Roadhog raised a hidden brow. “From canyonside.”

"Damn it, Wally,” she hissed and cursed like the old man could hear her. “Can’t keep his bloody mouth shut. Always gotta mess up the delivery. _This_ , folks, is why we _attend_ group meetings.” The rest of the Junkers nodded and murmured in agreement.

Roadhog blinked. Okay then.

Muds noticed his growing confusion from the tilt of his head. She sighed and beckoned for him to follow. “Fun’s over. Everyone get back to your posts.”

The group resumed to their usual chatter as Roadhog dismounted the bike, making sure to keep the rat steady all the while, and began to trail behind the middle-aged woman. She lead him, them, further into the sparse forest.

“Y’see, ‘Hog, us keepers like to poke some fun at whoever passes on by.” Muds kept a slow stride as she spoke. The long, brown coat she wore dragged along the desert floor. “Y’should see the look on their faces when they find out the head honchos are out on business. _Oh, woe is me, looks like I gotta stay a couple days more than planned_ ,” she said in a mocking tone. “Bah. Get over it, I’d say to them. Least they got elsewhere to be.”

Roadhog offered a grunt, trying to ignore the edge and air of bitterness in her voice.

“No hard feelings, eh ‘Hog,” she shrugged. “Job pays good, but it gets boring sometimes. You know.”

Yeah, he did know.

“Anything interesting out past the rocks?” Muds asked. Quick to change the subject, like usual. “Anything new?”

“Same as always.” It was Roadhog’s turn to shrug. Same old routine, same old sights. A small lie at best.

She hummed thoughtfully, slowing down to walk in pace with him, and didn’t push the subject further. Roadhog side-glanced the gatekeeper. He tentatively placed a hand on the lump of blanket beside him. Felt the rat’s breath hitch a few times, a slight hiccup, the notches of his spine sharp against his calloused fingers.

Tucked away in the inner edge of the bush, where mulga branches brushed along hollow redstone, laid the entrance to the Dugouts. Junkertown’s irradiated replica of the famous Coober Pedy maintained a steady temperature in contrast to the hellish, post-explosion landscape. The same could be said for the Omnium-scrapped buildings, though the ghostly hum of their former shell made for uneasy sleep, especially for unadapted guests, and yadda yadda yadda...

Roadhog could practically _hear_ the usual spiel from the gatekeepers, reserved for newcomers, of course, or if they were feeling particularity talkative and wanted to fill the silence. Droning about this and that like they were tour guides and museum curators and not radiation-tinged outlaws. Fortunately for him, Muds just kept to herself, humming a familiar tune from long ago.

The side passage to the Dugouts laid behind a cover of tall sandhill wattle. Muds pushed the bush aside and cleared the way for them to pass. Branches scraped the sides of the bike, poked at his skin, and lightly whacked the back of his head as he waded through. Muds wasn’t too far behind. Soon they left the reach of natural sunlight, traversing further into the torch-lit tunnel large enough to accommodate both Roadhog’s height and berth. A set of scrap iron doors eventually came within view.

“If Sprig’s on shift, you tell her Muds is lookin’ forward to Sally’s tonight.” She winked up at him and chuckled.

Roadhog nodded. Yeah, he’d deliver the message.

“Ta, ‘Hog.” Pleased, Muds reached over and patted the large hand that held the lump in place. “And good luck.”

The quiet yet ragged breathing beneath his palm ceased. Hidden pairs of eyes narrowed at the gatekeeper. Roadhog resisted the strange compulsion to nudge her hand away.

“Relax,” she said, sensing the suspicion. “Thanks to his little escape stunt during Wally’s shift at canyonside, my crew and I get to stay right here in the shade for the next season.” Muds winked at him. “I owe the rat.”

Huh, so that’s what happened. A piece of the puzzle. The breathing under his palm quietly and shakily resumed.

“Secret’s safe with me.” She shrugged and set off for the exit. Roadhog turned to see her go. “Can let it slide. Just this once. Keeper’s oath, I can guarantee that. Well, maybe except for No-Face. Besides that kiss-up, you can count on us.”

Roadhog let himself relax. Just a little. Muds was a woman of her word. Keeper’s oath. “...Thanks.”

She stopped and turned to face him. Her features softened at that. “Don’t mention it, Mako. ‘Sides, Queenie don’t want no trouble. Not much, anyway. Not after all the ruckus he’s caused.” She laughed and shook her head. “Just keep your heads low and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

All previous talk of stealth and deceit seemed trivial now. Roadhog had expected less... peaceful exchanges with the townsfolk. Never would’ve thought that some, if any, would still “side” with him. Not since he turned down the Queen’s so-called pardon and job offer and drove past those gates in search for other prospects.

It really had been a while since he’d set foot at the summit.

Muds left them there, stunned, and briskly headed back to her crew, whistling all the while.

Fortunately, Sprig _was_ on shift this time.

“ _Roadhog_? That really you?” Her voice crackled behind the intercom.

He turned to the camera inconspicuously placed above the entrance, took his finger off the bright red button, and waved.

“Huh, wow,” she laughed, fuzzy with static. “Thought you only stopped by the outskirts these days. Come in, come in.”

The doors slid open with a hiss and Roadhog wheeled them through into the next corridor. He followed the echoing sound of her humming, noting the lack of activity in the halls leading to some of the rooms. Not another Junker in sight.

Sprig stood behind the front desk, idly flipping through a magazine and tapping her manicured nails against the splintered wood. Her gaze flicked up at the sound of approaching footsteps and the stark cast of a massive shadow overhead.

“Muds has a message,” Roadhog said.

The younger woman smiled, wide and toothy. “About Sally’s right? Tonight’s our anniversary,” she explained. “Got something special planned.”

Roadhog nodded, “Congratulations.” Behind the gruffness of his tone, he meant it.

“Ta, ‘Hog. Need your expertise. Which one d’ya think my Doll would like?” Grinning, she held up her hands, wiggling her painted nails. One set was a bright pink and the other a pastel purple at first glance. Each ring finger sported a gold band etched with intricate details.

Roadhog mulled it over for a bit. “Think she’d like the lilac.”

“Good eye on ya.” She gave his arm a friendly smack. “But I didn't mean the claws, silly. Which ring d'you think she’d like?”

Oh, oops. Taking a better look, Roadhog could see the stark difference between the bands. One was lined with divots filled with tiny, twinkling pieces of opal. The other had only a single large, smooth piece that shimmered even under the dim lights.

“That one,” he pointed at the former. Muds would appreciate the subtlety.

“Hmhm. Good choice. Great minds think alike,” Sprig hummed. She carefully placed the bands back in their respective boxes for safekeeping. “Couldn’t resist, heh. Gosh, I hope Mudsie likes it. Got these commissioned from out past the Dugouts y’know. I don’t care what the Queen says. Cobra’s a true master with metal. Once I saw the rings she made for herself and her gal I just _knew_ I had to have a set.”

“She’ll love it,” Roadhog said. He had to admit that the aforementioned relationships were rather, well, sweet. There was some hope for the Wastes yet. A part of him was also glad to hear about Cobra’s business; that it wasn't reserved for just the outer edges of town. If anyone could hunker down and make a life here despite the Queen’s imposed limitations, it was her, among a few others.

“Too right,” Sprig said. She looked about ready to start daydreaming again. “Oh! Right, right. Almost forgot.” She dug through the drawer behind the front desk and pulled out a handful of keys. “Take your pick.”

Alright. Roadhog could play along. He reached over and blindly grabbed one from the receptionist’s hands. He noted the number written across the scuffed red cover, before it was swiftly plucked from his hold and replaced with a blue one.

“Sorry ‘bout that. First choice only had one queen-sized. Gave you a twin room instead.”

Roadhog stared at her with a raised brow. That meant...

Sprig winked. “Secret’s safe with me, Mako.”

Huh.

Wally, Muds, and now Sprig.

Maybe, just maybe, this’ll be easier than they thought.

“...Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mako "Roadhog" Rutledge - lesbian ally.


End file.
